


The Loyalty of a Traitor

by DeathBelle



Series: The Loyalty of a Traitor [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood, Corpses, Crime Scenes, Drug Use, Drugs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Guns, Killing, M/M, Mutilation, Shooting, Slow Burn, There's a lot of stuff going on, Torture, Violence, ex-undercover officer!Iwaizumi, yakuza boss!Oikawa, yakuza!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-01-20 09:12:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12429639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathBelle/pseuds/DeathBelle
Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime was an undercover officer with a single objective: Infiltrate the Seijoh Syndicate of the Yakuza and tear them down from the inside out. His primary target was the boss, Oikawa Tooru. The job itself was simple enough, until Iwaizumi got in too deep and absconded not only from the mission, but from the city itself.Now, two years later, he’s dragged back into Tokyo’s unsavory underworld. A grisly string of murders is plaguing the city, and the culprits are most definitely Yakuza. The problem is discovering which Syndicate is responsible, and Iwaizumi – the leading expert on Yakuza affairs – is the man most suited for the job.Despite his determination to stay away from Tokyo – and from Oikawa – Iwaizumi finds himself right back in the middle of Seijoh, and it feels a lot more like home than he’d care to admit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my newest project! Please make sure to check the tags before you start reading. 
> 
> Each chapter is separated into two parts. The first half is what's happening now, and the second is a look at what happened two years before. Essentially you're getting two stories spaced two years apart, but they have to be read together in order to make one complete, cohesive fic. I tried something new. Hopefully it works. ^^

Iwaizumi woke in a cold sweat, a strangled cry on his lips and a vision of blood behind his eyes.

He sucked in a burning breath and sat up, the sheets pooling about his waist, the air cool against damp flesh.

His eyes darted around the room, lingering on the corners and the shadows. 

He was alone. He was fine.

Iwaizumi dropped his head in his hands and worked through his mental recitation, the one that he did on mornings like this, mornings that were much too frequent.

_I am_ Iwaizumi _Hajime._

_I’m not in Tokyo._

_No one can find me here._

Oikawa _can’t find me here._

It took some time, but his breathing returned to normal and his tense muscles loosened. He collapsed onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying not to let his thoughts wander into dangerous territory.

He’d read once that someone is more likely to dream about the things they actively suppress when they are conscious.

That would explain his nightmares.

Despite his best effort, the thoughts gradually started creeping in. He flung the sheets away and shuffled to the kitchen to start his coffee, just to occupy his mind.

Iwaizumi had assumed that, over time, the festering wounds left in his head would heal up and fade away.

It had been two years now and they were still there, pulsing and throbbing and bleeding.

He didn’t think they were ever going to heal.

Iwaizumi leaned against the kitchen counter to drink his coffee. His preference was a dash of cream, but he’d ran out and hadn’t yet scraped together the motivation to buy more, so he drank it black.

His first sip was interrupted by a knock at the door. He winced a little at the bitterness in his mouth and crossed the room on bare feet. His visitor was probably his landlady. It was about time for her to begin harassing him about the rent. He almost had enough; he was only about 5,000 yen short.

He pulled open the door with a rehearsed reassurance on his tongue.

The person waiting was not his landlady.

Iwaizumi dropped his coffee. The mug shattered when it hit the floor, flecks of coffee spraying Iwaizumi’s feet and scalding his skin. He didn’t notice. 

He blinked once and wondered if he was still dreaming or if this was a hallucination.

Then he slammed the door, hard.

Unfortunately his visitor had expected that. The man stuck a foot inside the apartment and the door bounced back open.

“Iwaizumi, listen. Just ten minutes.” 

The voice was deep and familiar and almost made Iwaizumi nauseous. He tried to shut the door again, but a broad shoulder braced against it. 

“Get out, Sawamura,” said Iwaizumi. 

Sawamura was unmoved. He gripped the edge of the door and pushed it back another centimeter. “After everything that happened, you at least owe me a conversation.”

He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make Iwaizumi any more eager to speak to him.

“This isn’t even about that,” said Sawamura. “I need your help with something. It’s important.”

“I can’t help you.”

“You’re the only who can, Iwaizumi. I didn’t drive all the way here just to catch up, alright? It’s a life or death situation. Literally.”

Iwaizumi’s grip on the door loosened. Sawamura took the opportunity to step halfway inside. “Just give me ten minutes. That’s all I need. Then I’ll leave and you can pretend I was never here.”

Iwaizumi took a breath. He smelled spilled coffee.

He knew Sawamura Daichi well. Or, at least he had, a couple of years ago. Sawamura was stubborn to a fault. Even if Iwaizumi turned him away, he would only come right back again.

It was best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Iwaizumi released the door and took a step back. Sawamura almost stumbled, slipping in the spill.

“Sit down,” said Iwaizumi coarsely. “I need to clean this up.”

Sawamura stepped out of his shoes and carefully walked around the coffee to sit on the end of Iwaizumi’s couch. Iwaizumi sopped up the mess with a handful of paper towels, plucked the shards of glass out of the floor, and decided to give the area a more thorough cleaning later, when Sawamura wasn’t staring at him.

Iwaizumi dropped onto the far end of the couch, as far from Sawamura as he could physically sit. He crossed his arms across his chest and said, “How did you even find me here?”

“It wasn’t easy.” Sawamura shrugged a bag off of his shoulder and flipped through the contents. “I’ve been looking for months now. It was actually by accident. I know one of the lieutenants on the police force here and he said you helped them out with a case a while back. He mentioned it in passing. He didn’t even know that I knew you.”

Iwaizumi was furious with himself. He’d resolved to avoid the police at all costs, and back in November he’d stumbled across some information while doing a private investigation job. He’d turned it over to the police and it had helped them solve their case.

He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I haven’t told anyone else,” said Sawamura, guessing the direction of Iwaizumi’s thoughts. “I didn’t even tell anyone I was coming to Kyoto.”

That, at least, was a small comfort.

“What do you want, Sawamura?”

Sawamura chose a file from his bag and passed it over. “This is confidential information. If anyone finds out I showed it to you I’ll be in serious trouble.”

Iwaizumi made no move to take it. “Then don’t show it to me.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to. But I have to.” He tossed it into Iwaizumi’s lap. “We’ve been working on this for months. We’re making no progress and people are dying, Iwaizumi. I need you to look at it.”

“I’m not an officer anymore.”

“But I am,” said Sawamura, “and it’s my responsibility to protect Tokyo. I can’t do it if these murders continue. Please, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi stared down at the file. There was a pit in his stomach, full of dread and fear and guilt. 

Iwaizumi had only one area of expertise. There was only one type of crime that Sawamura would bring to him.

Iwaizumi took a breath and flipped the file open.

The photograph that greeted him wasn’t unexpected, but he still winced.

“It gets worse,” said Sawamura, more quietly.

It did get worse.

Iwaizumi flipped through the pictures one by one, viewing the spread of grisly murders. The methods were all similar, almost identical. A single gunshot to the back of the head, obviously close-range. The victims had been on their knees, hands bound behind their backs. The corpses were slumped into miserable piles like slaughtered cattle.

It wasn’t until he was halfway through the photographs that his fingers stilled and his breath caught.

“I know,” said Sawamura.

Iwaizumi closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, and then looked again.

Children. Some of the victims were children.

“Why?” said Iwaizumi, his voice level despite the roar of emotions in his chest.

“To be thorough,” said Sawamura. He was using his police voice, steady and unaffected. “They wiped out the Maeda family in one night. No survivors.”

“Who is ‘they’?”

“We don’t know,” said Sawamura. “We have suspects, but nothing has checked out. It’s a mess, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi quickly flipped through the rest of the pictures before snapping the file shut and handing it back. “It’s obviously yakuza,” he said flatly. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

“We know that,” said Sawamura. “Or at least, we assumed. We don’t know which syndicate is responsible. Obviously no one is talking.”

“Whose territory was it in?”

The weight of Sawamura’s stare answered the question before he even spoke. “Seijoh.”

Iwaizumi fought the ripple that slid down his spine. He didn’t say anything; the words stuck in his throat. 

Sawamura dipped into his bag again and withdrew another file. “Here’s another one, same thing. The entire family was killed.”

Iwaizumi ignored the file. He’d seen enough. “Where?”

“That’s debatable,” said Sawamura. He placed the file on the couch between them, within Iwaizumi’s reach. “When Fukurodani was rebuilt, the lines started to blur. It might be in Seijoh’s part of the city, but it might be in Fukurodani, too. We don’t have anyone on the inside anymore so it’s hard to say.”

Iwaizumi didn’t know if that was supposed to be a verbal jab.

“What do you want from me?” said Iwaizumi. “I can’t solve the case by looking at these pictures.”

“I just wanted your opinion,” said Sawamura. “That’s all.” He started to reach for the files, but thought better of it and zipped his bag shut without them. “Like I said, we’re making no progress. It’s only a matter of time before it happens again.”

He gave Iwaizumi that look, the one with the stern brow and set jaw that Iwaizumi had learned to read years ago.

“What do you really want from me, Sawamura?”

Sawamura didn’t look away. “We’ve collected evidence,” he said slowly, “but no one has the experience that you do. If you came in and looked at it, then maybe-”

“No,” said Iwaizumi, razor-sharp. “I’m not going back to Tokyo.”

“Iwaizumi, just think about it.”

“It doesn’t matter how much I think. The answer will be the same.”

“People are _dying_.”

“That’s not my problem anymore.”

Sawamura looked like he’d been slapped. He blinked once, and then his face regained its typical sternness. “If you can do something about it then it’s your problem, whether you’re an officer or not. Another family will probably be wiped out soon. Fathers, mothers, children; all of them. If you can do something to help, then it’s your problem.”

“I’m not going back to Tokyo.”

Sawamura stood, abruptly. “Then I guess I’m finished here. I thought I was coming to speak to an old friend, but I guess I was wrong. The Iwaizumi Hajime that I knew would never think someone else’s life wasn’t his concern.”

It was supposed to sting, and it did, but only a little.

Sawamura pulled a card out of his pocket and tossed it onto the couch, on top of the files. “If you change your mind, give me a call. Don't wait too long. There will probably be a fresh round of murders soon.”

He was at the door when Iwaizumi said, “What about your files?”

“Keep them,” said Sawamura, “but keep them to yourself. The public doesn’t know what happened, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

He left, and it was what Iwaizumi had been waiting for ever since he’d allowed him inside, but the apartment still felt unbearably empty in his absence.

Iwaizumi picked up the card and looked at it. It provided various means of contact, headed with the name Captain Sawamura Daichi.

It seemed that Sawamura had gotten a promotion over the past couple of years. Despite Iwaizumi’s current distaste for him, he knew Sawamura had deserved it.

He thought about throwing the card away, but ended up tucking it inside one of the files and leaving them lying on the couch. He would dispose of the photographs properly, so they didn’t fall into the wrong hands. 

He wasn’t an officer anymore, but he wasn’t completely irresponsible, either.

He started another cup of coffee, recleaned the spill by the door, and spent the rest of the morning trying to forget Sawamura and the photographs and everything that had happened two years ago.

He thought about it anyway.

  
  
  
  


****

*********

****

****

**TWO YEARS AGO**

****

****

*********

 

 

Everyone always said first impressions were the most important. They were the ones that stuck with you, even after you got to know someone. That initial perception was what mattered the most.

Iwaizumi’s first impression of Oikawa Tooru was mostly neutral. He looked nothing like Iwaizumi had expected, but not in a bad way. Oikawa was bright and charismatic, and had a smile that would have been better suited to a career of the performance variety.

“Welcome,” said Oikawa. “Please, have a seat.”

Iwaizumi straightened out of his bow and did as instructed. He sat carefully in one of the chairs facing Oikawa’s desk, trying to pretend he wasn’t fighting back panic.

He’d heard a lot of things about Oikawa Tooru. Many of them had been from his fellow officers, who spoke of Oikawa’s cruel and bloody methods. Most of them had been from other members of Seijoh, who spoke of his strength and status and power.

Iwaizumi’s first impression of Oikawa didn’t include any of those things. He seemed fairly normal, considering the circumstances. His smile was warm, and he addressed Iwaizumi as an equal rather than a subordinate.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” said Oikawa. “Kindaichi has spoken highly of you, Watanabe-san.” He frowned a little as he spoke the name, the one that Iwaizumi had chosen to use. “What’s your given name?”

Iwaizumi felt a pang of dread, but pushed it down. He’d been using his given name without any problems. It was common enough that it didn’t stand out. “Hajime.”

“Hajime,” repeated Oikawa. “May I call you that?”

“Of course,” said Iwaizumi. It wasn’t as if he was in a position to deny him. “Call me whatever you’d like, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa grinned, and this time it was more of a smirk. “There’s not need to be so on-edge, Hajime. We’re all friends here. I’m happy to have you. As I said, Kindaichi has spoken most highly of your contributions to Seijoh.”

“I’m pleased to be of assistance,” said Iwaizumi. He was vaguely aware that Kindaichi was still in the room, probably standing at the door. He couldn’t spare much attention for him when he was face-to-face with a viper.

Although, that viper didn’t seem quite as deadly as Iwaizumi had anticipated. In fact, he seemed almost pleasant. 

“I would like to speak to you,” said Oikawa, “about becoming a true member of Seijoh. You’ve been working with us for a while now. Have you thought about stepping up?”

Iwaizumi reminded himself that this was a good thing. This was what he’d been trying to accomplish.

“I’ve thought about it quite a bit,” said Iwaizumi. “I’ve been aspiring toward it for a while.”

Oikawa’s grin spread across his face once again, as slow and sweet as honey. “That’s good to hear, Hajime.”

The sound of his name in Oikawa’s voice made Iwaizumi suppress a shudder. He suddenly wished he’d chosen a completely different name after all. It had been stupid to stick with his own, even if it had been for purposes of convenience.

“Let’s have a talk,” said Oikawa, leaning back in his chair. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

They did get along, much better than Iwaizumi had expected. Oikawa wasn’t bad, overall; not nearly as bad as he’d been led to believe.

He couldn’t wait to tell Sergeant Sawamura what a polite, mild-mannered individual Oikawa was. 

A week passed before he saw Oikawa again, a week during which he continued to think getting closer to Oikawa wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

Their second encounter rewrote his entire perception of Oikawa.

It wasn’t the first impression that mattered. The second said much more.

Iwaizumi had been summoned again, but this time he wasn’t nearly as nervous. He felt he had a fairly good grasp on Oikawa’s personality and mannerisms, enough to navigate around him with ease. 

It was naivety at its finest.

He followed Kindaichi through a maze of twisting hallways, having to hasten his pace to keep up with Kindaichi’s longer strides. The chill in the air was a clear reminder that they were in the basement level of the building, which was more well-developed than the upper levels. Iwaizumi assumed they did most of their business down here, and made a mental note to include that in his next report.

At the end of the hallway a man stood guard outside a nondescript door. His arms were folded over his chest and he looked almost bored.

“Kindaichi,” he said. His eyes flickered to Iwaizumi, but his interest was brief. 

“Kunimi,” said Kindaichi. He gestured over his shoulder. “Boss wanted Watanabe.”

Kunimi sighed. “I figured.” He stepped to the side. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”

“Remember what I said,” Kindaichi warned, as Iwaizumi stepped forward.

Iwaizumi nodded his agreement, though in reality Kindaichi had said very little. He’d told Iwaizumi to stay calm and remember why he was here. That was all, and it hadn’t been enough to prepare him for what was waiting on the other side of the door.

Oikawa was there, of course. He lounged on a low sofa with a glass tumbler in hand, looking completely at ease. 

That wasn’t alarming, but everything else was.

In the center of the room was a metal chair, and strapped into it was a half-dressed man with a brown sack pulled over his head. Another man stood nearby, his glare as sharp as the knife between his fingers. 

“Ah, Hajime,” said Oikawa, smiling brilliantly. “Come sit with me. You’re just in time.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes flickered between the bound man, the gleaming knife, and Oikawa. He paced across the room and sat, stiffly.

“Would you like a drink?” said Oikawa, swirling the liquid in his glass. 

“No thank you, Oikawa-san.” 

Oikawa shrugged and took a sip. “This,” he announced, pointing around his glass at the man with the knife, “is Kyouken-chan. He doesn’t much like that name, though. You can call him Kyoutani. And _this_ ,” he pointed again, at the man in the chair, “is Ito-chan. Kyouken-chan, let Ito-chan say hi.”

Kyoutani yanked the sack away. The man beneath shook his head and winced, shrinking away from the sudden light.

Oikawa breathed a sigh. “Ito-chan is rude,” he said. “Kyoutani?”

Kyoutani’s movements were fast, almost too quick for Iwaizumi to follow. In a blink he had the knife at Ito’s throat, the flat of the blade pressed into flesh. “Tell Oikawa hi,” said Kyoutani, the words more growl than voice.

“H-h-hello, O-Oikawa-san,” the man stammered, leaning back to try and evade the knife. 

Kyoutani only pressed it closer.

Iwaizumi’s fingertips were buzzing, and it was not pleasant. The sensation burned beneath his skin, the first sparks of panic.

“Ito has been a member of Seijoh for… how many years now, Ito-chan?”

“Seven,” the man said. He didn’t need to be prompted by the knife this time. “S-seven years, Oikawa-san. I’ve given my l-life to Seijoh, I-”

Oikawa made a small gesture and Kyoutani seized Ito by the hair and shook him, shutting him up.

“Anyway,” said Oikawa. He crossed his legs and sat back, casual, as if this was commonplace. “As I told you during our last meeting, I very highly value everyone here. They have devoted their lives to Seijoh. Since I am their _Kumicho_ , I think it is only fair that I devote my life to them in return. Don’t you think so, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi was having a hard time following the conversation through his haze of dread, but he felt it was in his best interest to agree. “Yes, Oikawa-san.”

“I would do anything for Seijoh,” said Oikawa, “and for my brothers. Our empire was built on loyalty and respect. That is what is most important here, Hajime. In order to do well, you must always foster loyalty and respect.”

Hajime nodded numbly.

“Ito-chan, however,” said Oikawa, “stomped on that loyalty and respect and threw it in the garbage. Ito, tell Hajime what you did.”

Ito shook his head wildly. “Please, Oikawa-san, please. I didn’t- didn’t do what you think. It wasn’t-”

Kyoutani yanked on his hair again and Ito’s denial broke off with a choked sound.

Oikawa took another sip of his drink. “Ito-chan,” he said, as if the man hadn’t spoken, “has been doing side work for Shiratorizawa. He sold some of their guns in my territory. Does that sound like an okay thing to do, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi looked at Ito. The man’s chest was heaving, his lip bitten hard between his teeth. He looked terrified.

Iwaizumi swallowed and looked back at Oikawa. “No.”

“See, Ito-chan?” said Oikawa. “Hajime isn’t even a true member yet and he still knows more about Seijoh than you do.”

“Oikawa-san, no, please… I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“Kyoutani.”

The man’s fumbling apology pitched into a screech as Kyoutani’s knife pierced his side. The blade sank in slowly, sliding between his bare ribs, blood dripping off of the silver and down pale flesh. 

Kyoutani watched his own work with a narrow, intense stare, his lips slightly parted, breath coming quickly.

Ito screamed and struggled and bucked against his restraints, but Kyoutani had tied him well. He didn’t budge.

“Kyouken-chan is one of my best,” said Oikawa. His voice was only audible over the screaming because Iwaizumi was sitting so close to him. “He has minor problems with respect every now and then, but his loyalty is something to be admired.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t look away from the knife that was still pushing in deeper, splitting skin, forcing screams. The hand wrapped around the hilt of the blade was odd, and it took Iwaizumi too long to realize why. 

Half of Kyoutani’s pinkie was gone, chopped off cleanly at the knuckle. 

“Hajime.”

Iwaizumi closed his eyes, collected himself, and turned his head.

Oikawa was smiling. That was the worst thing about the situation, worse even than the shriek of agony when Kyoutani started to twist the knife. 

It wasn’t the smile that Oikawa had worn when Iwaizumi had first met him. This one was arctic cold, so sharp that it sliced through Iwaizumi just as easily as Kyoutani’s knife could have. 

All of the stories he’d heard, about Oikawa’s cruelty and brutality and mercilessness, suddenly made sense.

“Being a true member of Seijoh isn’t something to be taken lightly,” said Oikawa, still smiling. “I take this seriously, and so do my men. They all know what’s at stake. This isn’t something that you can dabble in and then go about your merry way. If this is what you want then it becomes your life. This is your identity. If you work for me then you live and die for me. That’s what it means to be yakuza, Hajime. That’s what it means to belong to Seijoh.”

Oikawa considered him over the rim of his glass, his dark, gemstone eyes piercing. 

Across the room, Ito started sobbing. Sloppy begging fell from his mouth, directed at Oikawa and Kyoutani and probably Iwaizumi, too. Iwaizumi wasn’t listening. Oikawa had completely claimed his attention.

Oikawa’s smile fell off of his face; not slowly, but all at once. “There are some men bold enough to get into Seijoh just to try and get information. Can you believe that, Hajime? The police have actually tried to go undercover here to tear down everything I’ve built. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?”

Iwaizumi’s heart was jammed in his throat. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but didn’t have much of a choice. “Yes, Oikawa-san,” he said, his voice tight. “Ridiculous.”

Oikawa smiled again, his teeth showing through parted lips. He looked like a human, but Iwaizumi saw him for the predator that he was. 

“The only thing worse than a rat,” said Oikawa, “is someone who would go behind my back and share my secrets with _Shiratorizawa_.” The last word was a hiss, and his smile morphed into bitter aggression. 

He stood and flung his glass across the room. It hit the wall and shattered.

Kyoutani didn’t flinch, but Iwaizumi did.

“Fucking Shiratorizawa!” Oikawa said, voice rising to a shout. “You betrayed me for _Shiratorizawa_. You’re lucky you’re going to die tonight, you piece of shit! I should make you suffer for _weeks_.”

Ito was sobbing too hard to respond. Kyoutani had worked his knife free and started plunging it between another pair of ribs. 

Oikawa dropped back onto the couch. His fists were clenched and his jaw was tight. Iwaizumi held his breath, waiting for Oikawa to lash out at him, to accuse him of being undercover, to say he’d known it all along and that Iwaizumi was Kyoutani’s next victim.

Oikawa exhaled, long and slow. When he turned toward Iwaizumi he looked perfectly pleasant. “Forgive me, Hajime. I lost my temper for a moment there. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink? I’m going to have to pour myself another one.”

Iwaizumi swallowed again. His throat felt like sandpaper. “Sure,” he rasped. “Thank you, Oikawa-san.”

Iwaizumi would need a drink if he was going to make it through the night.

Oikawa smiled, and it wasn’t as sharp as before. “Great!” He reached over the arm of the couch and plucked a bottle of sake and two glass tumblers off of the end table. He pressed one into Iwaizumi’s hand and filled it about half-full before pouring some into his own. 

“A toast,” announced Oikawa, holding his glass aloft. Another crackling scream made Iwaizumi shudder, and Oikawa pursed his lips and waited for it to taper off. “To your future in Seijoh.”

Iwaizumi feared the only future Seijoh had to offer was the one being delivered to Ito.

He raised his glass and tapped it against Oikawa’s, hoping the shaking in his fingers wasn’t obvious. “To Seijoh,” he murmured, before bringing the glass to his lips.

Oikawa smiled. “I think this is the start of something beautiful, Hajime.”

The sentence was punctuated by another scream.

It had been a lesson. Iwaizumi later learned that all of the higher-ranking members – Kindaichi included – had been treated to the same show. Kindaichi later told him that it was a privilege. Oikawa didn’t waste his time with most new members. Nearly everyone was initiated into Seijoh beneath someone lower-ranking. The handful of men who worked directly for Oikawa Tooru were the elites. 

Oikawa must have had high hopes for Iwaizumi, if he’d gone through the trouble of meeting with him directly. 

Kindaichi told him it was an honor, and Iwaizumi supposed he should be glad. This was what he’d been trained to do, after all. It was his job to take down Seijoh from the inside out, and he would never receive a better opportunity.

Still, it was going to be difficult to do that if he was lying dead with Kyoutani’s knife in his throat. 

He thought about getting out while he had the chance, but ultimately chose to stay and see it through.

Despite everything that happened thereafter, Iwaizumi never forgot that second impression of Oikawa Tooru.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten so many nice comments about this fic already! Thank you guys so much. I hope it lives up to your expectations. ^^

Iwaizumi parked his rental car in front of the Tokyo Police Station. For a while he sat there, grip tight on the steering wheel, just looking. He’d spent years of his life as an officer of Tokyo. They’d been good years, until he’d been tapped for the undercover project. Things had gone downhill from there pretty quickly.

Iwaizumi had been chosen because he was strong and stable. His superiors saw him as reliable, as someone who wouldn’t crack under pressure.

He supposed they regretted that decision now.

He climbed out of the car and stood awkwardly on the sidewalk, still just looking. He thought about getting back in the car and making the long drive back to Kyoto. It would be easier than having to face this. This was exactly what Iwaizumi had promised himself that he would never do.

He didn’t want to see a single person inside that building. They may not know every detail about what happened, but they knew enough.

Iwaizumi reached back, fumbled for the car door, and stopped just before yanking it open.

A phantom vision of Sawamura’s crime scene photos flashed through his mind, a sickly slideshow of bloody bullet holes and slaughtered children.

Iwaizumi didn’t want to be here, but he also didn’t want more kids to die because he was too scared to do something about it.

When he’d left Tokyo, he’d sworn he would never come back. This city was no longer safe for him, after all that had happened. He was certain that a fair number of people would have liked to see him dead, and not all of them were yakuza. 

Iwaizumi had tried to destory Sawamura's files. He'd really tried.

Instead, he'd ended up flipping through the photographs, pondering theories and motives and speculations. It was very possible that he wouldn't be able to help out with this case at all. It had been a long while since he'd been an officer. It was likely that he wasn't as skilled as he used to be. This trip may have been a waste of his time. 

Still, if more people were killed because Iwaizumi didn't at least try, he’d be better off dead.

He probably would be dead by the time all of this was over, anyway.

Iwaizumi held his breath as he stepped through the doors of the police station. He braced himself for some sort of impact, but there was nothing. The cheap tile was more faded than he remembered, and the chairs sitting against the wall were new, but everything was familiar enough to give him a wave of nostalgia that threatened to curdle into nausea. Slowly he stepped up to the front desk, his hands in his pockets, shoulders heavy with his own shame. 

“Good morning, Sugawara-san,” he mumbled, looking down at the desk rather than the man sitting behind it.

Sugawara blinked up at him, his pleasant expression faltering with belated recognition. “Iwaizumi-san.”

Iwaizumi still didn't look up, but he felt Sugawara eyeing him. “Could you let Sawamura know I’m here?”

“Of course,” said Sugawara. His manner was cool and crisp. “It’ll be a minute.”

“Thanks.”

Iwaizumi wandered away and stood with his back to the wall, gaze on the floor.

He’d called Sawamura the day before, and the captain hadn’t been surprised to hear from him. He’d known what he was doing, leaving those pictures at Iwaizumi’s apartment. He’d known the guilt would eat away at him until Iwaizumi came to Tokyo willingly.

Sawamura still knew him too well, and Iwaizumi hated him for it.

“Iwaizumi! You actually showed up.”

Iwaizumi winced, certain that everyone in the building had heard Sawamura’s loud greeting. “I told you I was coming.”

“You’ve told me a lot of things,” said Sawamura mildly. “Many of them were lies.”

The truth of that statement burned in Iwaizumi’s stomach like acid. 

“Come on back,” said Sawamura, holding the door open to the twisting corridors beyond. He gave Sugawara a significant look before again focusing on Iwaizumi. “Let’s get started.”

Iwaizumi followed him through the familiar hallways, the walls so close that he felt he would suffocate.

Sawamura took him to the evidence room. It was sealed and secured, as always. Only one officer in the entire department had access to the contents. It was a safety precaution, to ensure that nothing was tampered with.

Sometime in the past two years, the role of gatekeeper had been passed down to Azumane Asahi.

It was a good job for him. Azumane had never been an outstanding patrol officer.

Azumane’s behavior was a little more awkward than usual, but he didn’t seem very surprised to see Iwaizumi. Sawamura must have told him he was coming.

Azumane unlocked the metal door behind his desk that opened into the evidence room. Beyond, Iwaizumi saw a flash of endless shelves, stacked with labeled boxes that held all of the evidence the department had collected over the past decade. 

“We’ll be back in a minute,” said Sawamura. His face became more stern as he said, “Do not leave that spot.”

Iwaizumi shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “No problem.”

He wasn’t given time to even think about defying Sawamura’s orders when a uniformed officer stepped through the door, frowning down at a notepad. “Azumane-san, I need…”

The words trailed into silence as he looked up and met Iwaizumi’s eyes. 

Iwaizumi hadn’t seen him in a while, but two years hadn’t changed Kageyama at all. The only difference was the way his expression curdled into disdain once the shock of Iwaizumi’s presence passed.

“Kageyama!” A chirping voice interrupted the tense stares. “Did you ask him about… Is that Iwaizumi-san?”

Hinata looked awed, and that appeared to make Kageyama more irritated. “Come on, dumbass,” he said. “We’ll come back later.”

He stepped past Hinata, who didn’t seem inclined to follow. He was gaping at Iwaizumi, his mouth slightly open. 

Kageyama seized him by the shoulder and steered him toward the door. 

“Kageyama, wait!” said Hinata, struggling against him. “It’s Iwaizumi-san! We haven’t seen him since-”

Kageyama bodily shoved Hinata into the hallway. There was the distant sound of a scuffle, and the voices gradually retreated.

Iwaizumi wished he’d stayed in Kyoto.

Sawamura returned a few minutes later with a large box tucked against his side. He ushered Iwaizumi to the back of the building, to the interrogation rooms. He unlocked one at random, dropped the box onto the table, and lounged back in one of the chairs. “Knock yourself out. This is everything we’ve collected about the case.”

Iwaizumi flipped the lid off of the box. There was a stack of files, a handful of plastic bags that contained shell casings, a heap of photographs, and not much else.

“This is it?”

Sawamura’s frown was answer enough. “It’s been a tough case. Whoever’s responsible knows what they’re doing. They didn’t leave much behind.”

By “not much”, he meant “practically nothing.” Iwaizumi knew the police were having difficulties with the case, but he hadn’t been prepared for the lack of information. 

He took a breath, resigned himself to the scraps that he was given, and dug into the box.

It didn’t take long. He read through the files, looked through the pictures, and asked Sawamura questions here and there. An hour later he sat back in his chair, scanning the spread of evidence that he’d laid out on the table. 

“I’ve been cut off for two years,” said Iwaizumi. “Things have changed since then. I can’t completely guarantee anything I say because I’ve been out of the game so long.”

Sawamura nodded. He had barely moved since they’d entered the room. “I know. What do you think?”

Iwaizumi sucked in a lungful of air and dispelled it slowly. “The same person – or people – obviously did both families. The methods are identical. I’m not sure what to make of the site of the murders. They were killed in their own homes, which isn’t typical. Of course, wiping out an entire family isn’t typical, either.”

“Are you sure it’s yakuza, then?” said Sawamura. “Since it’s not their style?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “It’s definitely Yakuza. Deciding which syndicate is the problem. Assuming they were both in Seijoh territory – and it is an assumption, because like I said, I don’t know the lines anymore – it would make sense to think they were responsible. None of the others should be stupid enough to kill on Seijoh’s territory. But it doesn’t feel like something they would do.” He flipped open one of the files and dragged a finger down the page. “The killer used a .45 caliber and a standard execution style. That’s the Shiratorizawa Special. Is Ushijima still in charge?”

“He will be until he dies, probably. No one’s going to turn against him.”

Iwaizumi frowned down at the spread of files. “The clues could point to Shiratorizawa, but I don’t think it’s that easy. Someone is framing them, maybe.”

“Seijoh, then,” said Sawamura. “The person with the biggest grudge against Ushijima is Oikawa. It would be easier for them, since this was in their territory.”

Iwaizumi winced at the name. He hoped Sawamura didn’t notice. “Seijoh didn’t do this.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

Sawamura was unimpressed. “You sure you’re not just biased?”

Iwaizumi looked up at him, slowly. He thought over his words before he said them, because if he blurted out what was on his mind, he would regret it. “I’m not biased. Oik… Seijoh’s _Kumicho_ wouldn’t do this. It’s not how he does business, and he doesn’t buy guns from Shiratorizawa. It could’ve been Nekoma or Fukurodani.”

“But you don’t know.”

“I know it wasn’t Seijoh, and it probably wasn’t Shiratorizawa. Other than that, no, I don’t know. There’s not enough.”

Sawamura sighed. “Alright then.”

“I will take a guess at a motive,” said Iwaizumi. He plucked a couple of pictures out of the stack and turned them toward Sawamura, who leaned forward to look. They were wide shots taken of the crime scenes, a clear view of the bodies’ positions. “The victims were arranged around the edges of the room. At first glance it looks like it was done for convenience, so they’d be in a nice neat line for the shooter. But one victim in both cases was left in the middle, here.” He pointed first to one photograph, and then the other. “I think that was who they were after. They were the target. My guess is they were the last ones to die, too. The rest of the family was killed first, and that one was left in the middle so he could watch. Whoever did this was trying to make a point.”

“What point?”

“That no one else is going to fuck with them.”

Sawamura looked at the photographs for a while longer, processing Iwaizumi’s theory. Then he sat back and said, “So what’s next?”

“Whatever you choose,” said Iwaizumi. “That’s all I’ve got. I’m done.”

“The case isn’t solved yet.”

“I can’t do anything about that. I’m not an officer.”

“No,” said Sawamura, “but you’re an expert on the yakuza. If anyone can figure this out, then it’s you.”

“That’s not my job.”

“But it’s your duty.”

“No, it really isn’t. I said I’d take a look. I looked.”

Sawamura sighed. He looked exactly the same as he had two years ago, but something about his mannerisms was different. He acted older, as if what he’d seen during that time had mentally aged him. “What’s the next step, then? What should I do?”

“They’ve kept this under wraps for a reason,” said Iwaizumi. “The only ones who will know about it are other yakuza. If you don’t have any informants then you’re out of luck.”

“We don’t. We stopped the undercover op, too. You were the last one we sent in.”

Iwaizumi ignored the dull sting beneath his skin.

“You can help us solve this, Iwaizumi,” said Sawamura. He shifted forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the edge of the table. His stare was piercing. “You’re an expert in yakuza, but you’re a genius when it comes to Seijoh. No one knows more about them than you do.”

“That’s not-”

“They slipped away from us two years ago,” said Sawamura, “when you left. This is our chance to catch them again. We just need to find something, _anything_ , that links them to these murders and we can bring down the entire syndicate. I need your help, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw tightened, fingers curling into fists beneath the table. “I thought you wanted me to help you solve this case, not bring down Seijoh.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Seijoh didn’t do this.”

“I think they did,” he disagreed, “and I think we can prove it.”

“How do you expect to do that?” snapped Iwaizumi, the words sharper than he’d intended. “There’s no evidence. Unless you’re going to plant something-”

“I have leverage,” said Sawamura, “over Oikawa.”

Iwaizumi’s anger fizzled out, replaced with suspicious dread. “What kind of leverage?”

Sawamura smiled. “I’ll show you.” 

  
  
  
  
  


*********

**Two Years Ago**

*********

  
  
  
  
  
Sawamura smiled when he opened the door. The sounds of low music and loud chatter spilled into the hallway, washing over Iwaizumi with comforting familiarity.

“Hey, you made it,” said Sawamura. He stepped back and allowed Iwaizumi inside, deadbolting the door behind him. “There’s pizza in the kitchen and beer in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” said Iwaizumi. He made himself smile, but his weary face barely cooperated. 

He hadn’t slept well in about a week, since he’d moved into the Seijoh base. He had his own room, tucked away on the basement level alongside the other elite members, but still he felt he was constantly being watched. It was unnerving, especially after he’d searched the entire room, found no cameras, and still couldn’t shake the feeling.

He thought maybe it was only his paranoia getting the best of him. 

Iwaizumi knew the layout of Sawamura’s apartment. He’d been there several times in the past. He toed off his shoes, paced down the hall, and slipped through the first doorway on his left.

The smell of fresh pizza was thick on the air. It reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Still, he went directly for the fridge, twisted the cap off of a beer, and tossed back half of it in one quick pull.

He emerged from the bottle with a sigh, only then realizing he wasn’t alone.

Michimiya was leaning against the counter with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth, staring at him.

“Uh,” said Iwaizumi. “Hi, Yui.”

Michimiya blinked once, then smiled. “Hi, Iwaizumi,” she said brightly. There was a smudge of tomato sauce at the corner of her mouth. “How are you?”

“Good,” he said. He wanted nothing more than to drain the rest of his beer, but he set it aside. “Sorry, I didn’t see you when I came in.”

“That’s okay!” she said. “I haven’t heard your voice in a while. Guess you’re still undercover, huh?”

Objectively it was a strange thing to say, but for Michimiya, who worked as a dispatcher, it was expected. They’d learned each other’s voices long before they’d met in person. 

“Yeah,” said Iwaizumi. “Still am.”

“That must be hard,” she said. She took a bite, pondering, and almost choked. “Wait! If you’re still undercover then what are you doing here? What if someone sees you out? What if-”

“It’s fine, Yui,” said Iwaizumi. “I got a night off.”

In fact, Oikawa’s exact words had been, “ _You deserve a break, Hajime. Get out of here. I don’t want to see you back until at least midnight. Get drunk, get laid, just do something to wipe that constipated look off of your face_.” 

As soon as Oikawa had said it, Iwaizumi had already opened his mouth to snap back a reply, but had reminded himself who he was talking to just in time. He’d kept his affront to himself, and had instead mumbled a quiet thank you.

Oikawa had only smirked at him, as if he’d know what Iwaizumi had really been thinking.

It was still a risk to come here, of all places, but Iwaizumi needed this. He needed a good hour or two where he didn’t have to be so on-edge that he thought he would shatter. He needed to let his guard down around people he trusted without fearing that he would say the wrong thing and allow his cover to slip.

He just needed to relax, because if he didn’t, he thought he would go insane.

He’d been undercover for a year now, but he’d only lived with Seijoh for a week.

This job was going to kill him.

“Are you okay, Iwaizumi?” 

The voice was closer than he expected, and he realized Michimiya had stepped up beside him, concern clear in her eyes. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” said Iwaizumi. He pressed the mouth of the bottle against his lips and took another drink. 

Michimiya considered him for a minute, then brightened. “Hinata and Kageyama are here! I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you. They always have nice things to say about their favorite training officer.”

Iwaizumi smiled a little despite himself. Before he’d gone into investigations, he’d been a regular patrol officer. He’d trained some of the new hires, for a while, and Hinata and Kageyama had been two of his favorites.

“I’ll check in with them soon,” he said, glancing down at his beer. There was only a quarter left. He wanted to throw back at least two more before he started socializing. “I just want to get something to eat first. It’s been a long day.”

Michimiya nodded and took another large bite out of her pizza. “Okay then! I’m going to go find Mao, she’s around here somewhere. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“Sure,” said Iwaizumi. “See you.”

When she’d drifted out of the room, Iwaizumi sucked down the rest of his beer and dug into the fridge for a fresh one.

He was on bottle number three when Sawamura stepped into the kitchen, eyeing him with knowing disapproval. He slapped two slices of pizza onto a paper plate and forced it into Iwaizumi’s hand. “Eat.”

Iwaizumi frowned down at the food, but begrudgingly did as he was told.

After the first bite, he realized he was starving.

“You need to take care of yourself, Iwaizumi,” said Sawamura. He leaned against the counter and folded his arms, face stern. “No one out there is going to do it for you.”

“I know,” said Iwaizumi through a mouthful. “I’m fine. Just adjusting. I’ll get used to it in another week.”

“I don’t know if you’ll make it another week,” said Sawamura. “You don’t look so good.”

“Just can’t sleep,” said Iwaizumi with a shrug. “Like I said, I’ll get used to it.”

“If this job is too much for you-”

“It’s not,” said Iwaizumi with finality. “I can do it. Things are going well.”

Sawamura considered him, as if he didn’t quite believe that. Still he nodded. “Alright. If you change your mind, let me know. We’ll get you out.”

Iwaizumi knew he would die before he requested early extraction from the mission, but he didn’t say that. 

“Yui is happy you’re here,” said Sawamura. His expression morphed into something smug. “She’s out there telling Mao how great you are. Once this job is over you might want to get to know her a little better. She’s a good person.”

Sawamura would know that better than anyone. He’d known Michimiya since high school. Iwaizumi had been convinced that there was some sort of covert relationship going on between them, but Sawamura insisted otherwise.

“Maybe,” said Iwaizumi, noncommittal. 

He stuffed the rest of his slice into his mouth, chewing through the crust and washing it down with another gulp of beer.

He was about to start on the second piece when Sawamura said, “How are things with the boss?”

Iwaizumi’s grip tightened on the slice, his fingers sliding in the grease.

A vivid memory burst in his mind, stainless steel and scarlet blood and a twisted smile.

Iwaizumi put the pizza down. He wasn’t hungry, after all. “Fine,” he said. “He’s been surprisingly welcoming. He gave me a gun and everything. Apparently they all use the same kind, imported from Italy so they don’t have to buy from Shiratorizawa.”

Sawamura’s face was flat. “How kind.” He shook his head and reached out to grip Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Really, though. If you need anything at all, let me know. I’m serious.”

He looked directly at Iwaizumi, open and earnest.

“Okay,” said Iwaizumi. “Thanks, Sawamura.”

Sawamura nodded once, then loosened his grip. “Finish your food and come hang out,” he said. “The guys are dying to see you.”

He stepped out of the kitchen, and Iwaizumi was again left alone. 

He took a breath, glanced at his pizza, and went for another beer instead.


	3. Chapter 3

Sawamura clearly had a death wish.

He took Iwaizumi downstairs, to the small cellblock attached to the police station. Typically prisoners were only housed there for a day or two before they were shipped off to the jail. Their stay at the station was just long enough for the investigators to thoroughly question them. Very rarely were there exceptions to this rule.

This was definitely an exception.

The man stood against the bars, his hands curled around iron, forehead pressed into a gap between the bars. Sharp, feral eyes cut into Iwaizumi so sharply that he came to a dead stop. 

“Sawamura, please tell me you’re not serious.”

Kyoutani bared his teeth in a snarl. “Traitor,” he growled, his voice hoarse and jagged.

Iwaizumi pretended the accusation didn’t hurt, because it shouldn’t.

It did anyway.

“We finally got enough on Kyoutani Kentarou to arrest him,” said Sawamura. He sounded proud. Iwaizumi thought the captain was losing his mind. “We’ve got enough to put him away for life, actually.”

Iwaizumi looked at Kyoutani, who still glared back. His eyes dipped to Kyoutani’s hands. He was missing another finger and a half off of the left one. The mutilation was gut-wrenching.

Kyoutani saw him looking. “I fucked up,” he said, flexing his remaining fingers, “but at least I’m loyal.”

Sawamura seemed quite unbothered by the proceedings. “This actually happened at a convenient time. We can set up a meeting with Oikawa to ask him about the murders. I can offer consideration in Kyoutani’s case in exchange for his cooperation, and maybe-”

“He’ll blow your fucking head off,” said Iwaizumi. “You do that and you’re dead, Sawamura.”

Sawamura’s face darkened. “I have to do _something_. We have to stop these murders. Oikawa has to talk.”

“He won’t tell you shit,” said Iwaizumi. “He doesn’t deal with the police. You know that.”

“But since we’ve got Kyoutani, he-” 

“He’ll be even more furious,” said Iwaizumi. “If you value your fucking life you’ll keep Kyoutani’s name out of your mouth and off the news. He’s one of the best. Oikawa won’t react well to losing him.”

Saying the name still burned like acid.

Sawamura considered that. He seemed to be taking the advice seriously, which was in his best interest. “Even if Seijoh didn’t do this, as you seem to think, wouldn’t Oikawa still know something about it?”

Iwaizumi’s eyes darted to Kyoutani, who watched the pair of them with narrow interest. He must have been in that cell for at least a few days, probably longer. If he’d just been captured he would have still been pacing like a wild animal. 

“I don’t know,” said Iwaizumi. “You’ll never find out. The yakuza doesn’t deal with the police.”

“It’s in his best interest, if he’s not the one doing it,” insisted Sawamura. “At least one of the incidents was in Seijoh territory, and I doubt he gave another syndicate permission to kill on his property. If we work together-”

“No,” said Iwaizumi flatly. “If he knows about the murders, he’ll handle it himself. That’s how the yakuza do things.”

Sawamura looked at him for a long time, so long that Iwaizumi grew uncomfortable. 

Finally, Sawamura said, “You’re not an officer anymore. If _you_ talk to him-”

“ _No_.”

“You just said he won’t deal with the police. You’re not the police.”

“I’m worse. He’d rather kill me than kill you, Sawamura.”

Kyoutani made a sound. It might have been a growl, or maybe a laugh.

“I doubt that,” said Sawamura. His tone went cold. “It’s not as if you actually snitched on him, right?”

Iwaizumi didn’t like the way Sawamura was looking at him, but it was expected. 

Iwaizumi had turned his back on everyone, Sawamura included. 

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” said Sawamura, “I don’t. But what I do know is that if I found a way, any possible way, to prevent more murders, I’d do whatever I needed to do. That’s what a good officer does, Iwaizumi. That’s what a good _man_ does.”

“Oikawa won’t tell me anything.”

“You just have to get him to admit he was involved in some way,” said Sawamura. “If you can do that, I can bring him in for questioning and we can get a confession out of him.”

“There’s nothing for him to confess to. I told you Seijoh isn’t responsible for this.”

“You can even use Kyoutani as a bargaining chip,” said Sawamura, ignoring him. “Use whatever you need to. We have to do something about this, Iwaizumi, before it happens again. I know you don’t want to, but isn’t it worth saving lives?”

“What about my life?” said Iwaizumi. “That's what it’s going to cost. He’d rather kill me than look at me.”

“I think if he wanted you dead then he’d have tracked you to Kyoto and done the job,” said Sawamura. “I had a hard time finding you, but I still managed. Oikawa has connections in every city in Japan. If he wanted you dead then you would be dead.”

“Even if that’s true,” said Iwaizumi, though he didn’t believe a word of it, “that doesn’t mean he’ll talk to me. The best-case scenario would be Oikawa telling me to go fuck myself.”

“You’re underestimating yourself, Iwaizumi. I remember your reports. You were his right hand for a while. He trusted you.”

“And now he doesn’t.”

“You have to try.”

“He’ll _kill me_ , Sawamura.”

“I’ll send one of my officers with you.”

“He’ll kill them, too!”

“Iwaizumi.” Sawamura dropped his hands on Iwaizumi’s shoulders and looked at him, the lines of his face stern and solid. “I know you went through a lot of shit, alright? I get that, and I’m sorry. But I’m not asking you to do that again. Just talk to him. Get him to say something about the murders, even just that he knows something about it. If it doesn’t work, that’s fine. Leave, and go back to Kyoto, and keep running from your problems.”

Iwaizumi just stared back at him. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Tell me exactly what happened that’s making you so scared to see him.”

Iwaizumi was silent.

“It can’t just be because you were a snitch, because in the end you weren’t. He knows that, because if you’d actually told us everything you knew, Oikawa would be holed up in prison somewhere and Seijoh would be annihilated. He knows you didn’t sell him out, so tell me what’s so awful about this.”

Iwaizumi swallowed. His eyes darted to the side, where Kyoutani watched him with a knife-edged smirk.

Kyoutani might not know everything, but he knew more than Sawamura did.

“Does he want me dead?” said Iwaizumi, focus still on Kyoutani.

A barbed-wire smile was his only response.

“Iwaizumi,” said Sawamura. “I just-”

“Fine.”

“…what?”

“I said fine.” Iwaizumi wrenched away from Sawamura’s grasp and stepped back. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll see if he knows anything about the case. I’ll probably die while I’m doing it, but that’s not a big concern for you, is it?”

“Iwaizumi, that’s not-”

“Just shut up. I said I’ll do it. You get what you want.” He looked at Kyoutani again. “Will he at least give me a chance to speak before he kills me?”

Kyoutani drummed his mangled fingers against the bars and said nothing.

Iwaizumi turned away. “I’ll go tonight,” he said. “I’ll report back here in the morning if I can. If I’m not here assume I’m dead.”

“Jesus Christ, Iwaizumi, _wait_.” Sawamura seized his shoulder and yanked him back around. “I don’t expect you to just barge in like that. I’ll give you a wire and send someone with you. I don’t expect you to do this on your own.”

“Well that’s how I’m going to do it. They’ll tear the wire off the second I walk through the door, and sending an officer will make the whole trip useless. If you want this done then I’m doing it on my terms.”

“Too bad I’m in here,” rasped Kyoutani. “Boss would sit back and watch while I took you apart. It would be fun.”

Sawamura snapped at him, and then gestured toward the door. “We’re going to my office to talk about this,” he said. “If you’re going to do this, you’re doing it the right way.”

“You’re under a lot of stress for someone who’s getting what he wants,” said Iwaizumi. “Don’t worry, Sawamura. If I get killed I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

“Shut up. You’re not going to get killed.”

Sawamura could say that all day long, but Iwaizumi was pretty sure he was wrong.

After everything he’d seen, and everything he’d done, Oikawa had little reason to want him alive. 

After all of those things, Iwaizumi had very little reason to want himself alive.

If Oikawa killed him, maybe he’d be doing everyone a favor.

  
  
  
  
Iwaizumi and Sawamura agreed, after an hour of deliberation, that Iwaizumi would go to speak with Oikawa the following day, accompanied by Officer Tanaka Ryuunosuke. Sawamura agreed that a wire would be a bad idea, but still insisted that Iwaizumi at least download a recording app on his phone to try and capture their conversation. Even if it didn’t work, Tanaka was still there as a backup witness. It would be more than enough evidence to cast reasonable suspicion on Oikawa, should he reveal that he had any knowledge of the murders.

Sawamura was insistent that Seijoh was responsible, and Iwaizumi stopped arguing with him. In fact he stopped disagreeing altogether, simply nodding along with what Sawamura said and allowing him to sketch out the plan all on his own.

Iwaizumi agreed to everything, and said that he would return to the station first thing in the morning to get set up for the mission.

Before Iwaizumi had gone undercover, he’d been a terrible liar.

It was fortunate that he’d improved that particular skill.

At ten o’clock that night, Iwaizumi stepped out of a taxi and stared up at the club. The glowing neon sign was just as he remembered, the characters spelling out _Aoba Johsai_. 

The sinking dread in his stomach threatened to morph into panic. He’d lived here for nearly a year, but instead of comforting nostalgia, seeing it again made him nauseous.

He took a breath that smelled of distant cigarette smoke, braced himself, and walked up to the club.

The bouncer was unfamiliar, and Iwaizumi felt only a small measure of relief. He showed his ID, paid the cover charge, and was waved inside without a second glance.

That had been the easy part. Everything was going to be more difficult from here.

The club’s activities were in full swing. The place smelled like sweat and sex and booze. It dragged old memories from the depths of Iwaizumi’s mind, memories that were better left buried.

The girls were different, but everything else was the same. They strutted about on the stages, dancing onto the runways and twirling around the poles that stood at the end of each one. It was a show of low lights and smooth skin, enrapturing to the men who had come for their nightly entertainment. The bar was against the far wall, lit by fluorescent blue light. The catcalls of the spectators were familiar, barely audible beneath the thrum of the gritty music.

It felt just enough like home to make Iwaizumi hate himself.

He shifted the bag on his shoulder and worked his way around the crowd, toward the back of the building, behind the stages. There was a plain door there, one that blended so well with the wall that it was hardly noticeable. It appeared wooden, but Iwaizumi knew that was only a façade. It was thick steel, secured by a keypad built into the wall. It was camouflaged, but Iwaizumi found it easily, flipping up the cover and eyeing the buttons beneath. He’d known the code, once, but he was certain it would have changed. Even if it hadn’t, waltzing into the most private quarters of Seijoh without invitation was a good way to get himself shot.

He figured he was going to die tonight, anyway. There was no need to rush things.

He pressed the button for the buzzer and stepped aside, out of view of the camera mounted subtly over the doorway.

He waited with his back against the wall and his quick heartbeat in his throat.

One of the girls slipped through the curtains, gave him a curious glance, and started down the hallway, toward the dressing rooms. She was wearing nothing but high heels and glitter. 

A few minutes dragged by with the weight of a century. Then the door was pulled open and a man stepped out, one so familiar that Iwaizumi’s stomach swooped with dread.

They stared at one another, and recognition lit up the man’s face like a wildfire. His eyes widened even as his fists clenched and then Iwaizumi was slammed into the wall, a hand buried in his shirt and a snarl in his face.

“What are you doing here?” said Hanamaki. His free hand twitched toward his gun but he didn’t reach for it, flicking a glance over his shoulder. 

Another man stepped into the hallway, this one taller and darker but equally as familiar. 

“I need to talk to Oikawa,” said Iwaizumi. He tried to keep his voice steady, but Oikawa’s name tasted foreign on his tongue.

“Fuck you,” spat Hanamaki. “You think you can just stroll in here and-” 

“I’ll tell him,” said Matsukawa. He looked between them, lingering on Hanamaki’s shock. “What? You really think the boss wants you to send him away or cut his throat without asking first?”

Hanamaki gritted his teeth, but didn’t argue. He checked over his shoulder again, then pushed Iwaizumi toward the steel door. “Go on. We’re not staying out here where someone might see.”

Iwaizumi knew what he meant. He didn’t want any witnesses around in case someone buried a bullet in his head. Regardless, he stepped through and started down the stairs. There were twenty-four of them. He still remembered. 

“Stand right there,” said Hanamaki, giving him another shove when he reached the bottom. “Don’t move.”

Iwaizumi did as he was told, because he had little choice. 

“I’ll be right back,” said Matsukawa, stepping past them. “Don’t kill him.”

Hanamaki grunted in return, neither agreement nor dissent.

He would listen, though, because he wasn’t stupid enough to do anything without Oikawa’s consent.

Iwaizumi curled his fingers into his palms and resigned himself to wait.

When Matsukawa returned, Iwaizumi would either be granted a death sentence or an audience with Oikawa.

He wasn’t wholly convinced that they weren’t the same thing. 

  
  
  
  
  


*********  
**Two Years Ago**  
*********

 

 

 

Iwaizumi had heard of Seijoh’s dangerous duo, both from police reports and from the low-ranking members of Seijoh he’d met during his first year undercover. Matsukawa and Hanamaki were respected, as was Oikawa.

The difference was that everyone seemed to like them; even some of the police officers.

“They were so cool!” Hinata had told him once, after the young officer had ran into them on a random traffic stop. “I mean, I know they’re criminals, but they were nice! And really funny, too. They told me this joke about a kangaroo and a figure skater, and-”

That had been the point where Sawamura had cut him off and given him a thorough lecture about being more careful around yakuza members.

Still, Hinata hadn’t been wrong. The two of them were quite friendly.

They were also quite frustrating.

“I’m all in,” said Hanamaki, pushing a handful of poker chips to the center of the table. He fanned himself with his cards and raised a brow at Iwaizumi. “What about you, Hajime?”

They’d picked up Oikawa’s habit of calling Iwaizumi by his given name. Two weeks had passed like that, and he’d finally stopped twitching every time he heard it.

Iwaizumi looked between the two of them, considering. Then he tossed his cards on the table and said, “Fold.”

Hanamaki’s face didn’t change as he looked to Matsukawa. “Mattsun?”

They studied one another, expressions flat. Then one of Matsukawa’s eyebrows twitched and he said, “You’re bluffing. I call.”

Hanamaki heaved a dramatic sigh as Matsukawa pushed his chips into the center. “Dammit.”

Iwaizumi was bemused. He didn’t know how Matsukawa had known. Hanamaki had given nothing away.

The three of them were at a table in the middle of the club. It had closed for business half an hour before. They sat in the midst of the mess, which would remain until the cleaning service arrived in the morning. 

Well, it was technically already morning. Iwaizumi’s sleep schedule had been flipped so thoroughly that he was now borderline nocturnal.

Matsukawa collected his chips and arranged them into neat stacks with a smirk. Hanamaki pouted beside him. “You’re the worst, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa hummed. “Sure. Here, I’ll spot you a couple thousand, but you have to pay me back with interest.”

Hanamaki grumbled, displeased, but accepted the chips anyway.

They weren’t playing for real money. It seemed Matsukawa had bought the poker chips for five hundred yen at a convenience store and just wanted to play for the fun of it. Iwaizumi had been invited into their game and he’d agreed, although upon reflection, he’d been almost guaranteed to lose. The two men across the table had the best poker faces he’d ever seen.

Matsukawa gathered the cards back into a pile and started shuffling with the finesse of a seasoned blackjack dealer. He tapped the deck on the edge of the table to level the cards, leaned forward to deal, and paused, his eyes stuck to something over Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

Iwaizumi turned to check, sitting more stiffly in his seat when he noticed Oikawa strolling over to them, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks.

He was still dressed in his suit, though the tie had been discarded and the first pair of buttons were undone. Iwaizumi had never seen him in anything else. He supposed Oikawa felt the need to uphold his image at all times.

All of the members dressed in such a way when they were doing business, but now, after club hours, Matsukawa and Hanamaki had changed into casual clothes. There was no one here to impress.

“Playing cards without me?” asked Oikawa with a smile, stopping at the corner of the table. “How rude. Can I join?”

“No.”

The single word was said in unison, Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s voices blending perfectly.

Iwaizumi was a little surprised by the abrupt denial. The two of them seemed fairly casual around Oikawa, but he was still their boss, and he was still dangerous. He didn’t understand how they could comfortably speak to him with such informality.

Then again, they’d worked for Oikawa ever since he had taken over Seijoh. Iwaizumi supposed they must have moved past a working relationship and pushed into something resembling friendship.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes at them. “Why not?”

“You cheat,” said Hanamaki flatly.

“Not true,” said Oikawa. He yanked out the chair beside Iwaizumi and sat, despite the lack of invitation. “I can’t help if I’m better than you, Makki. I don’t cheat.”

“Yes, you do,” said Matsukawa.

Oikawa’s mouth twisted to one side. It almost looked like he was pouting. “You’re both full of shit.” He leaned closer to Iwaizumi. “You don’t think I’m a cheater, do you, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi made himself sit still rather than flinching away. “No, Oikawa-san.”

“Mind if I join your game?” said Oikawa, grinning.

“Of course not, Oikawa-san.”

“Not fair!” said Hanamaki, slapping a palm against the table. “Of course he’s going to agree. He probably still thinks you’re going to murder him in his bed!”

Oikawa frowned at him, then slide a glance to the side.

Iwaizumi wasn’t sure what his own face looked like, but apparently there was something there that confirmed Hanamaki’s statement.

“Don’t worry, Hajime,” said Oikawa. He propped an elbow on the back of Iwaizumi’s chair and leaned close. “I’ve never killed anyone in their sleep, not a single time. If I decide to kill you, it certainly won’t be in your bed.” He tilted his head and added, “I won’t decide to, though, unless you make me. I kind of like you, Hajime. You’re charming in a gruff sort of way.”

He reached up to ruffle Iwaizumi’s hair. 

Iwaizumi hadn’t seen it coming. If he had, he probably would’ve sat back and let Oikawa do it.

As it were, the gesture caught him by surprise and he smacked Oikawa’s hand away.

He went still, the realization of what he’d just done growing into horror.

Oikawa withdrew, and the slight smile on his face lacked malice. Iwaizumi barely registered the sound of Hanamaki’s laughter from across the table.

“Rude, Hajime,” said Oikawa. “I just wanted to see if your hair feels as rough as it looks.” His grin widened, briefly, and he turned back to Matsukawa. “Deal me in, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa rolled his eyes, but obediently distributed cards between the four of them. 

Iwaizumi collected his small pile from the table, but he couldn’t focus. His eyes kept shifting to the side, where Oikawa chewed lightly on his bottom lip as he studied his cards.

Oikawa tilted his head to the side, catching Iwaizumi’s stare. He gave him a quick wink before discarding two of his cards onto the center of the table.

Iwaizumi mimicked him, choosing two of his own cards at random because he still didn’t know what he’d been dealt.

Oikawa definitely didn’t match Iwaizumi’s first impression, but he didn’t seem to strictly align with the second, either.

Oikawa Tooru was something else entirely, and in order to complete his mission, Iwaizumi would have to figure out exactly what that something was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now fanart for this fic! Check out this[ beautiful, badass Oikawa](http://bestanimetrash.tumblr.com/post/167202347451/worthlesspride-started-a-yakuza-au-fanfic-a-few) art by bestanimetrash. It is absolutely flawless and I love it _so much_.

Matsukawa walked on Iwaizumi’s right side, so close that their sleeves brushed. His eyes were half-lidded but sharp, cutting toward Iwaizumi every other step. He hadn’t said anything when he’d returned, but the fact that he was herding Iwaizumi deeper into the Seijoh base instead of shooting him gave a good indication of what was happening.

Hanamaki had pushed Iwaizumi up against a wall and searched him before Matsukawa had even come back. He’d been none too gentle, and Iwaizumi’s spine ached from being slammed against the concrete. It was fortunate that he hadn’t been willing to go along with Sawamura’s idea of wearing a wire, because he likely would have been strangled with it.

Hanamaki was several paces in front of them, his phone pressed against his ear, speaking so quietly that Iwaizumi couldn’t pick out any words or syllables. Iwaizumi’s phone was still in his pocket. He’d been allowed to keep it because it would do him no good there. The underground levels had been constructed to block out all outside signals. The only functional network there was the one set up and secured by Seijoh. 

It was a security measure, one that Iwaizumi had once appreciated.

Now it was more of a hassle than anything.

It was no secret where they were going. It had been a couple of years since Iwaizumi had seen these twisting hallways, but he remembered the turns all too well. It was no secret, yet his heart still flipped nervously in his chest when Hanamaki led them down one more set of stairs and knocked on the furthest door.

Iwaizumi glanced up automatically, to the security camera bolted onto the ceiling. He felt the eyes beyond it and he clenched his fists to suppress a shudder.

It was possible that he was walking into his own execution; likely, even. Considering what had happened two years ago, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was forced to pay for his actions in blood.

It was stupid of him to come here. He’d known that when he’d made the decision. It was even dumber that he’d told Sawamura he would wait until tomorrow instead, because by the time the police realized Iwaizumi was missing, it would be much too late for them to do anything about it.

It wasn’t as if they truly wanted to do anything about it, anyway. Iwaizumi had betrayed them, too. Sawamura was a good man, but he would probably still experience a measure of relief if he heard that Iwaizumi had been destroyed by his own brand of poison. Kageyama’s reaction to him had been indicative of the police’s stance on Iwaizumi. At one point, Kageyama had expressed a sense of awe toward him that was rather endearing. 

Now Kageyama looked at him as if he was dirt on the sole of his boot, and Iwaizumi couldn’t fault him for it.

Hanamaki ended his phone call, tapped a code into the panel on the wall, and pushed open the door. He stepped back and nodded at Matsukawa, who gripped Iwaizumi just above his elbow and marched him forward. 

The office was arranged just as he remembered. Bookshelves lined one side of the room. The other was hung with pictures and paintings, arranged artistically around a single door that Iwaizumi had stepped through several times in the past. A large round rug softened the concrete landscape, and on it was a large, sturdy desk. Behind it, sitting with his elbows on the desk and his fingers folded beneath his chin, was Oikawa Tooru, head of the Seijoh Syndicate.

Matsukawa’s hand thumped heavily on Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “On your knees.”

“No need for that, Mattsun,” said Oikawa. His voice ran like an icy current through Iwaizumi’s blood, chilling him to the bone. His face remained neutral, almost pleasant. Iwaizumi would have been comforted if he hadn’t been so familiar with that mask.

“Have a seat,” said Oikawa, inclining his head in invitation. 

Matsukawa’s hand fell away. Iwaizumi glanced over and both he and Hanamaki were watching him.

Slowly Iwaizumi stepped forward, his footfalls nearly silent on the plush rug. He perched on the edge of the chair facing Oikawa. It was low to the ground, to give Oikawa a better angle to look down at him. 

“I like to think,” said Oikawa, “that after all these years, nothing can surprise me anymore.” He smiled, cold and sharp. “And yet here you are.”

Iwaizumi was pinned in place by that carnivorous stare, but he didn’t let himself look away. Oikawa liked to be looked at when he spoke. He said it was easier to detect dishonesty if he could see into someone’s eyes.

Oikawa had said a lot of things, and Iwaizumi remembered most of them.

Oikawa fluttered a dismissive hand, eyes still on Iwaizumi. “Give us a minute. I’ll let you know when we’re finished.”

There was a beat of hesitation, then Hanamaki said, “You sure, boss?”

Oikawa hummed. “I’m quite sure.”

There was a shuffle of movement. Hanamaki stepped closer to drop Iwaizumi’s bag on the corner of Oikawa’s desk. “He had this with him. Looks like police stuff.”

Oikawa raised a brow and Iwaizumi forced himself not to fidget.

“Thanks, Makki.”

Hanamaki nodded, gave Iwaizumi a last, lingering look, and disappeared into the hallway with Matsukawa. He closed the door, and it sounded like the heavy drop of a coffin lid.

“Iwaizumi Hajime.”

Iwaizumi didn’t move, didn’t react.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” said Oikawa. Still he studied Iwaizumi from above laced fingers, his hair falling to shade one of his eyes. “Your _real_ name?”

“Yes.”

Oikawa’s mouth twitched. He looked almost amused, which wasn’t good. “Well at least you only half-lied about that, then. I always thought Watanabe didn’t suit you. I suppose my intuition is even better than I thought.”

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything. If he misspoke then he was dead. He still didn’t quite expect himself to walk out of there alive, but he wasn’t going to push his luck into even more fatal territory.

Oikawa seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts. It had been an uncanny skill of his in the past, and it was eerie now. “I should have killed you the moment you walked through that door.” He said it so casually that Iwaizumi’s pulse spiked. “No, that would have been too much of an honor, and it would have ruined the rug. I should have had Makki kill you the second you showed up.” He sat back in his chair, arms resting on the sides as if he was sitting in a throne. “There’s only one reason I didn’t, and I think you know what that is.”

Iwaizumi nodded once. “Yes.”

“If you came here thinking I owe you something,” said Oikawa, “then we’re even now. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you have any leverage over me because you did me a favor a while back.”

“Favor” was putting it lightly. If Iwaizumi hadn’t already been so on-edge he would have taken offense. 

“I don’t think you owe me anything,” said Iwaizumi. His voice was a low rasp, gruff compared to Oikawa’s smooth tenor speech. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Oikawa folded his arms and almost smirked. His eyes flashed with cutting interest. “Then why are you here, Hajime?”

Hearing his name in that icy tone froze Iwaizumi to the core. He bit down on a shiver and said, as levelly as he could manage, “The police are coming for you.”

Oikawa blinked, a flash of surprise touching his face. Then his mouth curled into a grin and he laughed, razor-sharp. “Please, Hajime,” he said, still grinning. “The police have always been coming for me.”

Iwaizumi shook his head. Of course Oikawa wasn’t going to take this seriously. He’d always thought he was invincible.

“I’m not joking around,” said Iwaizumi with a hint of a growl. “Those mass killings happened in your part of the city. They were obviously yakuza jobs. Sawamura is going to pin them on Seijoh and shut you down.”

Oikawa’s brows pulled lower. “What mass killings?”

Iwaizumi nodded toward his bag. 

Oikawa considered him for another moment, then reached for the bag. He slid out the files that Sawamura had delivered to Iwaizumi’s home in Kyoto, the files that were supposed to be for police use only.

Oikawa flipped the first one open and looked through the photographs inside. His face didn’t change as he skimmed over the blood and gore and dead children. There was none of the bone-deep misery that Iwaizumi had felt when faced with such tragedy. There was nothing except for detached speculation. 

He wasn’t a hollow shell. Oikawa had emotions, but they were muted and infrequent. Most of the time his demeanor was fabricated, worn like a well-crafted Halloween mask. It was well-practiced and easily believable, but Iwaizumi had learned the difference between the mask and reality a long time ago.

Oikawa didn’t bother feigning anything akin to anger or sorrow or regret in regards to the murders. When he looked up at Iwaizumi his face was blank. “I didn’t know about this.”

It was probably a lie. Oikawa was good at what he did. He knew everything about anything that happened in his sector of the city. Seijoh ran their territory well. They knew everything that happened, when it happened, and why it happened. 

It would have been stupid to believe that Oikawa had known nothing about two sets of brutal, bloody killings that had occurred within two months of each other. 

It would have been stupid, but Iwaizumi believed him anyway.

“The police kept it out of the news,” said Iwaizumi, as Oikawa flipped through the pictures again. “They thought the public would have a bad reaction.”

“I suppose the police do something right every now and then.” Oikawa selected a photograph and held it out toward Iwaizumi. It was a close-up of the hole blown through the back of an eight-year-old child’s head. “What kind of gun was used?”

Iwaizumi was fairly certain Oikawa already knew the answer. “A forty-five.”

Oikawa shuffled the pictures back into order and closed the file. “I don’t kill kids.”

“I know.”

“Do you think I did this, Hajime? Do you think I sent my men to wipe out these families over some sort of personal vendetta?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I already told you. The police are convinced that you’re responsible and they’re going to do whatever it takes to prove it.”

“Even if I’m not.”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “Even if you’re not.”

“That’s good to know,” said Oikawa. He sat forward again and folded his hands beneath his chin. His stare was piercing. “But I’ll ask you one more time. Why are _you_ here, Hajime?”

The oxygen in the room suddenly seemed scarcer. Iwaizumi held his gaze, though it felt like it was burning straight through him. “Sawamura dragged me back to Tokyo because he thought I’d help him take down Seijoh. He planned to send me to talk to you tomorrow to see if I could get any information that would let him pin the killings on you.”

Oikawa raised a brow. 

“I already know you didn’t do it,” said Iwaizumi, answering the unvoiced question. “He’s so fixated on the case that he won’t listen to me. I thought you might know who’s responsible so I can push Sawamura in the right direction.”

“So basically you’re here for information.”

“No. I’m here to stop another murder from happening.”

“Did the police take you back, then?”

Iwaizumi scoffed. “I’m not fit for law enforcement anymore. That doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and let kids get killed if I can do something about it.”

“So noble,” said Oikawa with a twist of his lips. “You haven’t changed much at all, have you, Hajime?” His tone was a little familiar and a little mocking.

“Do you know anything useful or not?” said Iwaizumi. Oikawa was still staring and it was beginning to unsettle him. 

Oikawa rose from his chair. He circled toward Iwaizumi slowly, his smooth steps that of a predator. He leaned back against the front of his desk, an arm’s length away from Iwaizumi. Oikawa unbuttoned his jacket, his fingers moving slowly, and pulled open the left side to reveal the gun strapped beneath his arm.

“What kind of gun do I carry, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi didn’t even have to look at it to answer the question. “A nine.”

“What kind of guns do my men carry?”

“Nines.”

“Seijoh does not use forty-fives,” said Oikawa. He let the flap of his jacket fall closed, but even with the weapon out of sight, Oikawa looked no less deadly. “If I saw one of my men carrying a forty-five I would beat him with it. We have more class than that. This isn’t America.”

Iwaizumi knew exactly where Oikawa was going with this line of thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

“If Sawamura and his dull blue soldiers want to solve this case then they need to look elsewhere. You know exactly where those guns come from, Hajime.”

“I know.”

“Did you tell the police to look into _them?_ ” 

“No.”

Oikawa nodded. “Good.” He pushed away from the desk and circled back to the other side. “That means the police will stay out of my way so I can handle it myself.”

Iwaizumi frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Those families belonged to two of my men,” said Oikawa. He scooted his chair forward and started tapping at the laptop on the corner of the desk. “They were at the bottom of the ladder, but they still belonged to Seijoh. Even if they hadn’t, no one is going to shed blood on my territory without my permission. Someone is going to die for this.”

There wasn’t any particular heat behind the words. They were cold and matter-of-fact, which made them more terrifying. 

“If you cooperate with the police,” said Iwaizumi, “they’ll track down the killer and take care of this. If you can prove that you didn’t do it, then you-”

“I don’t need to prove anything to them. This isn’t their fight. It’s mine.”

Iwaizumi just stared at him. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d just wanted reassurance that Seijoh wasn’t responsible for the murders, perhaps enough evidence so he could convince Sawamura. 

He hadn’t intended to incite a blood feud between syndicates.

“Oikawa, listen,” he said. The name still tasted strange from years of avoidance. “If you jump into this yourself there’s going to be even more killing. The police are already watching you. They already…”

_They already have Kyoutani._

He wasn’t sure if Oikawa knew exactly where Kyoutani was, but if he didn’t, Iwaizumi wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

Oikawa’s fingers stilled. Without the rapid sound of typing, the room was eerily silent. Those sharp eyes were on him again, cutting straight through him. “Why did you come back to Tokyo?”

The question was loaded. Iwaizumi felt the weight of it on the still air. He’d come to help Sawamura, but that wasn’t the correct answer. He wasn’t exactly helping the captain now. “To stop more kids from getting killed.”

“The best way to do that,” said Oikawa, “is to figure out who’s responsible. You know how long it will take the police to do that, Hajime. They’ll be chasing their own tails for months before they decide it isn’t Seijoh after all.”

Iwaizumi did know that. 

“You know I’ll find out who did this,” said Oikawa. “You know I’ll take care of it.”

Iwaizumi’s heartbeat was loud in his own ears.

“If you really want to stop the killings then you should help me instead.” Oikawa’s face was neutral, but his eyes were housefire-bright. “You’re good at this kind of thing, Hajime. You investigated me for years, after all. The fact that you’re still alive proves your skill.” 

The comment was biting, and Iwaizumi nearly winced. 

Yakuza activity was his area of expertise. He’d studied it for years before his first undercover assignment, and had only improved his already vast knowledge after that. He’d lived the lifestyle of the yakuza for a full year before he even met Oikawa, and had only been dragged in more deeply after that.

This was definitely Iwaizumi’s kind of case.

It was a case that he’d never be able to work again, because he would never be an officer again.

With or without his help, he knew Oikawa would unearth the culprit. On the surface, it had appeared that Oikawa had taken Seijoh with brute force and bloodshed. Many people still thought that to be true. It was, to an extent, but the only reason he managed it was his cuttingly sharp intelligence.

Oikawa was fierce and ruthless and a little cruel, but his intelligence was the most frightening thing about him. 

“What happens when you find them?” said Iwaizumi. It wasn’t a question of whether or not Oikawa would. It wouldn’t be all that difficult for him on his own, but if Iwaizumi pitched in, it would be a walk through a gore-littered park.

Oikawa’s face remained calm. “I’ll kill them.”

Iwaizumi’s gut twisted.

“If Sawamura finds them instead,” said Oikawa, “and he actually manages to catch them, they’ll be sitting in a prison cell for years before execution. That is, assuming they’re even executed. Most killers just waste away in a nice clean prison cell with three meals a day. It’s punishment, sure, but the yakuza exists in prisons, too. Their life goes on, and they can still give orders and send hits from the inside. Is that what you want, Hajime?” 

Iwaizumi didn’t answer. He knew where Oikawa was going with this, and he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to say no.

Oikawa reached for the file again. He dumped the photographs onto his desk and spread them out, the bloody scenes overlapping. Iwaizumi didn’t want to look at them but he couldn’t stop himself.

“It won’t stop this,” said Oikawa, pushing the pictures closer to him. “More people will die while Sawamura is chasing ghosts. Even if he finds the killer, this won’t stop. Someone else will still get orders from them and pick up where they left off. It won’t stop until they’re dead. It’s my responsibility to handle this because they’re killing on my territory. This is my problem now and I intend to fix it. Are you with me or are you going to run back to Sawamura and help him tear down Seijoh?”

“If I wanted to ruin Seijoh,” said Iwaizumi, “I could have done it two years ago.”

The tension between them spiked. It buzzed on the air like electricity and Iwaizumi expected a lightning strike at any moment.

“I know,” said Oikawa. “That’s why I didn’t come to Kyoto to kill you.”

Iwaizumi flinched. 

He’d told himself for the past two years that he was safe, that he’d hidden well enough that Oikawa couldn’t find him.

He’d been so stupid.

Of course Oikawa had known where he was.

“Are you with me,” repeated Oikawa, “or not?”

“If I’m not,” said Iwaizumi, “are you going to let me walk out of here?”

Oikawa’s smile was the flat of a blade. “Of course. Mattsun will escort you out unharmed. If I ever see you again, however, you won’t be so lucky.”

Iwaizumi believed him, but felt no great relief. He could leave this situation and return to his life in Kyoto. If he refused to help Sawamura any further, the captain wouldn’t bother with him again. Oikawa hadn’t made the effort to come after him before, so it was unlikely that he would do so now. 

Iwaizumi could go back to Kyoto and everything would be fine.

This wasn’t his problem. This wasn’t something that he needed to get involved in.

His eyes dropped to the photographs, to the bullet holes in the back of a dozen different skulls. 

This wasn’t his problem, but he couldn’t just walk away from it. He had to do something, and his effort was going to be wasted with Sawamura.

He realized he’d already made his choice when he’d shown up at the club to see Oikawa.

“I’m with you.”

Oikawa’s face didn’t immediately change. Perhaps he was waiting to see if Iwaizumi had something to add, or if he was joking.

The declaration lingered, and a slow smile split Oikawa’s face.

“Good decision,” he said, his voice wrapped in false syrupy sweetness and smug satisfaction. “Welcome home, Hajime.”

 

 

 

****

*********  
**Two Years Ago**  
*********  
  
  
  
  


“Welcome home, Hajime.”

Typically Iwaizumi wouldn’t have been startled by the voice. It was rare that he was startled by anything. But he was already so high strung that he flinched away, his hand automatically going toward his hip for a gun that wasn’t there. He let his fingers drop quickly, and if Oikawa noticed the nervous tic, he didn’t mention it.

Oikawa leaned against the bar and smirked. “You’re a little jumpy. Something wrong?”

Iwaizumi exhaled and commanded himself to calm down. His heart fluttered in his chest, veins still spiked with adrenaline that had nothing to do with being startled.

It was mid-afternoon, which meant the club was still closed. It wouldn’t open until later that evening. Iwaizumi crossed the freshly cleaned floor and approached the bar, behind which Oikawa waited.

“What’re you doing out here?” said Iwaizumi. He slid onto a stool and tried to act casual. He didn’t need Oikawa to know how high his level of stress had peaked. 

“Waiting for you, obviously,” said Oikawa. He reached beneath the bar for a bottle of clear liquor and splashed it into a pair of glasses. “How was the deal?”

Iwaizumi threw back the shot and closed his eyes, relishing the burn in the back of his throat.

He’d been sent on his first solo assignment a couple of hours before and he’d been on edge ever since. It wasn’t as if Oikawa had given him a difficult assignment. In fact, Iwaizumi was fairly certain that he’d intentionally been tasked with something simple. Oikawa needed to get a feel for him before he entrusted Iwaizumi with anything of higher importance.

All he’d had to do was deliver a package to one of Oikawa’s associates on the other side of town.

The problem was the package, which consisted of a kilo of cocaine.

Iwaizumi dipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the wad of yen he’d received in exchange. He put it on the counter between them and watched Oikawa flick through the money.

“Everything went fine,” said Iwaizumi. “No problems.”

Oikawa skimmed off the first few bills and nudged them toward Iwaizumi. “That’s your cut.”

Iwaizumi took it without complaint and put it back in his pocket. He wasn’t thinking about money right now. He was too busy thinking about how he’d walked halfway across the city with enough drugs to land him a life sentence. 

It wouldn’t have come to that, of course. Even if he’d been caught, he would have been released as soon as his identity had been verified. He was an officer, after all. If he had to commit a few minor crimes in order to collect valuable information about the top tier of Seijoh, then he would do whatever was necessary.

That hadn’t stopped him from skating to the edge of a panic attack in the process.

“That’s good to hear,” said Oikawa. He tipped back his own shot, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. He reached for the bottle and poured them another round. “What’s not so good,” he said, “is the phone call I got as soon as you made the delivery.”

Iwaizumi’s hand was outstretched toward the glass. He let it fall into his lap, his nerves buzzing with anxious electricity. “What do you mean?”

Oikawa took another shot, rested his elbows on the counter, and raised a brow. His stare was unnerving. “The buyer called me after you left. He weighed the delivery and it came up short.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth was dry, and the lingering taste of alcohol on his tongue was nauseating. “What?”

“We haven’t known each other very long,” said Oikawa. “It’s been less than a month, hasn’t it? Still, I thought I could trust you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi tried to speak, but when he opened his mouth nothing happened.

Oikawa thought Iwaizumi had stolen from him.

Iwaizumi was about to die.

Oikawa’s hand moved toward him and Iwaizumi flinched back. Oikawa only took the untouched shot glass and polished it off. 

Iwaizumi swallowed and forced rough, jagged words out of his throat. “Oikawa-san, I didn’t… I wouldn’t steal from you. I swear I didn’t take any of it. I delivered exactly what you gave me.”

“I showed you what happens when someone betrays me,” said Oikawa. “Do you need to be reminded?”

Iwaizumi thought back to the second time he’d met Oikawa, when he’d been forced to sit through Kyoutani’s brutal session of pain and torture and blood.

“No.” His voice was tight. “I remember.”

Oikawa stared at him, expression set.

Then he started laughing.

Iwaizumi’s jaw went slack as Oikawa half-collapsed onto the bar, muffling his laughter into his forearm. 

“You look like you’re about to shit yourself!” said Oikawa between chuckles. “Am I that scary, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi’s heart still pattered against his chest at an unnatural speed. “Are you just fucking with me?”

Oikawa peered up at him, eyes bright with humor. His grin was answer enough.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” said Iwaizumi. The words came before he could stop them. 

He expected Oikawa to lash out at him for the disrespect, but he only started laughing again.

“You should’ve seen your face though,” said Oikawa, when he’d caught his breath enough to speak. “Hilarious. I should’ve taken a picture.”

“Shit.” Iwaizumi propped his elbows on the bar and rested his forehead in his palms. He was only twenty-eight years old and he was going to have an actual heart attack.

Oikawa reached across the bar and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve done it with everyone. Kindaichi cried a little.”

That didn’t make Iwaizumi feel any better.

“You did good,” said Oikawa. “Let’s celebrate.” He reached beneath the counter again and Iwaizumi assumed he was picking out a different kind of alcohol.

Instead he emerged with a glass plate. He presented it in the same way a chef would present his finest dish.

“The delivery really was a little short,” said Oikawa, “but that’s because I shaved some off before I gave it to you.”

Iwaizumi stared at the plate. His anxiety shouldn’t have spiked considering he’d carried around much more than the small amount of powder dusting the plate, but he had a bad feeling that he knew where this was going.

One the edge of the plate was a razorblade and a pair of cut straws. Oikawa pinched the edge of the blade between his fingers and scraped the cocaine into twin lines. He completed the task with ease of practice.

“Here,” said Oikawa. He picked up one of the straws and offered it to Iwaizumi. “Take your pick.”

Iwaizumi didn’t move. If he’d been nervous before then, now he was on the verge of a full blown anxiety attack. 

He’d always known this might happen, especially after his undercover mission had been designed for the infiltration of Seijoh.

There were four major yakuza groups in the city, and each of them had a specialty. Shiratorizawa was the biggest arms dealer in the country. Fukurodani ran every major gambling ring in Tokyo. Nekoma, who had legal connections in every major Japanese city, boasted the trade of information as their specialty.

Seijoh, however, made their fortune by dealing drugs. They had huge supplies coming in and out of the city at all times. The police knew it was happening, but hadn’t been able to stop it.

“That’s okay,” said Iwaizumi. “I’m not really into this. Thanks anyway.”

Oikawa tilted his head. “Have you ever tried it?”

It would have probably been best to lie. It wouldn’t have been very believable that he wanted to work for Seijoh yet had never tried hard drugs in his entire life. 

If he tried to pretend he’d used it before with his lack of experience, that would be even less believable.

“No, I, uh… no.”

Oikawa smiled. “I don’t use very often. It isn’t good for business. Drugs rot your brain, you know.”

He wielded the razorblade again, and Iwaizumi wondered if Oikawa was going to let him off the hook.

He simply cut ones of the lines in half and added the excess to the first. 

“Start slow,” said Oikawa. “Doing it every now and then isn’t going to hurt anything. It’s when someone uses too much that it becomes a problem.” 

He finished straightening up the line and set the razorblade aside. He bent over the plate, pressed the straw into his nose, and snorted the entire thick line of cocaine.

Oikawa tilted his head back and sniffed. A light crust of white powder ringed his right nostril and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. He sniffed again, swallowed, and grinned at Iwaizumi. 

“This is the good stuff,” he said. “I promise.”

That wasn’t what Iwaizumi was worried about.

Oikawa discarded his straw, reached for the second one, and offered it to Iwaizumi. “Just give it a try. That’s barely enough to make you feel anything.”

Iwaizumi stared down at the plate. Even half of a line was more than he’d ever thought he’d try. 

He didn’t want to do this.

He was actually terrified to do this.

But considering the circumstances, he didn’t think he had much of a choice.

Iwaizumi took the straw.


	5. Chapter 5

Iwaizumi didn’t sleep.

He sat on the edge of his old bed and stared at the wall, his nerves strung so tightly that they practically vibrated beneath his flesh. 

After a couple hours of that he started pacing instead, trying to burn off some of his restless energy. He refused to look too closely at anything as he stepped and turned and stepped again. Everything here was too familiar. He didn’t trust himself to tamp down his nostalgia if he allowed himself to think about it.

He’d lived in that room for nearly a year. When Matsukawa had escorted him there and locked him inside for the night, Iwaizumi expected it to be different than the last time he’d seen it.

He’d been wrong. Everything was still the same.

The same lumpy pillow was on the bed, the same plush rug was sprawled on the floor, and Iwaizumi’s old clothes still hung in the closet.

If felt more like coming home than he cared to admit, so he didn’t admit it. He kept pacing and forced his mind to roam elsewhere.

All of the top tier Seijoh members had living quarters on the underground level of the club. They also owned apartments in different parts of the city, mostly for appearances, but the underground was where they most frequently slept. Oikawa even chose to reside there most of the time, protected by one of the most elaborate security systems in Tokyo.

Oikawa placed a high value on his own safety. He considered it second only to the safety of Seijoh as a whole. In the past he’d trusted Iwaizumi with his safety. He’d trusted Iwaizumi with everything, once.

Iwaizumi spun on his heel and forced himself to think of something else. If he was going to do this, he couldn’t go into it with the same mindset that he’d had two years ago. He knew better now. He knew what mistakes he’d made.

He couldn’t make the same ones again.

  
  
  
Sometime the next morning the lock on the steel door rattled. Iwaizumi scrambled up from where he’d been lying face-down on the bed and wondering if he could use the sheets to hang himself from the ceiling.

It would’ve probably been easier than whatever he was about to deal with.

It could have been worse. The person behind the door was Yahaba. 

Everyone else had looked largely the same, but Yahaba had changed. His hair was longer, cut bluntly at his jaw line. It made him look older, but Iwaizumi supposed that might not be an effect of the hair. Yahaba was older now. He looked more mature than Iwaizumi remembered.

He also looked like he hadn’t slept for a solid week.

“Iwaizumi-san,” said Yahaba, studying him through tired eyes.

It appeared that the entire syndicate had been informed of Iwaizumi’s true name. He wondered how long it had been after his disappearance that they’d learned of his affiliation with the Tokyo Police.

“Yahaba,” said Iwaizumi. “Good to see you.”

Yahaba frowned but said nothing. He was dressed in nice clothes, but his jacket was missing. The twin guns strapped in dual shoulder holsters were visible, like bare bones. Two years ago the sight of firearms hadn’t bothered Iwaizumi.

But now that the yakuza had a good reason to want him dead he was a little less comfortable.

“You should wear something nicer,” said Yahaba. “We’re having a meeting.”

“I didn’t bring any clothes,” said Iwaizumi. “I wasn’t aware that I’d be held hostage here.”

Yahaba was unimpressed. “You were given a chance to leave and chose to stay. Oikawa-san sent someone to retrieve your belongings from your hotel room. Until then, I believe there should be something suitable in the closet.”

Iwaizumi wondered how much Oikawa had told the others. Everything, apparently.

The night before, after he’d made his decision to work with Seijoh, Oikawa had given him a phone and ordered him to call Captain Sawamura. They both knew that if Iwaizumi disappeared without a trace, Sawamura would know exactly where he had gone and wouldn’t rest until he was found.

Oikawa had told Iwaizumi what to say, and for the most part he’d complied.

Sawamura hadn’t taken the news well. There had been a large amount of indignant yelling, which had made Oikawa smirk.

“I’m sorry, Sawamura,” Iwaizumi had said near the end of the conversation, when the captain had paused to catch his breath. “I want this case to be solved, but focusing on Seijoh isn’t the way to do it. I told you it wasn’t their style. Oikawa isn’t responsible.”

“Don’t let him brainwash you,” said Sawamura. His voice had been low and gritty. “Don’t fall into his trap again.”

Iwaizumi had been struck by an insane urge to laugh. He’d held it in and said, all too aware of Oikawa’s eyes on him, “Don’t worry about that, Sawamura. Once you’ve fallen so far, you can’t fall any lower.”

He’d ended the call then and had pointedly avoided looking at Oikawa. He felt he was going to be doing a lot of that in the future. To look directly at him was dangerous.

He shook those thoughts away and refocused on Yahaba.

“I’m not changing,” he said. “I’m not part of Seijoh. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing.”

Yahaba considered him. He didn’t look surprised or irritated or anything else. He was completely impassive, and Iwaizumi wondered what had happened in the past two years to make him that way.

“Fine then,” said Yahaba. “Put on your shoes and follow me.”

Iwaizumi didn’t need anyone to lead him. He knew exactly where they were going. Still, he stayed a few steps behind Yahaba, eyeing each door they passed.

He still remembered what was behind each of them. Nothing had changed.

Yahaba took him all the way down the hall, back toward the stairs, and stopped outside of a steel door identical to the others. He tapped a code into the keypad, and though Iwaizumi tried to pick out the numbers, Yahaba angled himself to block his view. There was a beep, Yahaba pushed the door open, and then he waved Iwaizumi inside.

Beyond was a meeting room that Iwaizumi had seen on more occasions than he could count. 

During all the times before, he'd always received a fairly warm welcome.

The stony faces turned toward him all at once. None of them looked pleased by his arrival, but none of them looked surprised, either. Clearly Oikawa had told them he’d returned.

“Come on in, don’t be shy.” Oikawa sat at his rightful place at the head of the table. He spread his arms in welcome, but Iwaizumi saw the bitter twist of his smile. The seat beside him was empty.

That had always been Iwaizumi’s seat. During his time at Seijoh, he’d sat at Oikawa’s right hand.

Yahaba brushed past Iwaizumi and took the empty seat at Oikawa’s side. The one next to him was empty as well, and Iwaizumi assumed that was Kyoutani’s place.

There was one more vacant chair at the end of the table and Iwaizumi took it. Everyone was watching him. He knew it, but he didn’t look at any of them.

“Okay then.” Oikawa clapped his hands together once, reclaiming everyone’s attention. “Now that we’ve all been debriefed on the situation, we need to make a game plan. Thoughts?”

Iwaizumi sank back in his chair and crossed his arms. He tossed a quick glance to his left, realized Kindaichi was seated next to him, and then quickly looked back at the table again. 

He didn’t think he could stand to see the way Kindaichi looked at him now. Kindaichi had been the one to bring Iwaizumi into the fold. He’d trusted Iwaizumi enough to introduce him to Oikawa, to recommend that he become a top-tier member of Seijoh. Iwaizumi had used him well. It had been his assignment, so he shouldn’t have felt bad about it.

Still, the hot taste of guilt lingered in the back of his mouth.

Kindaichi was a good guy. Iwaizumi hoped he hadn’t gotten into trouble with Oikawa once it had been discovered that he’d unwittingly led an undercover officer into their ranks.

It was impossible to determine how Kindaichi felt about Iwaizumi’s presence just from that quick glimpse of him. Kindaichi was watching Oikawa with his hands folded in his lap, his face a mask of stern interest.

He looked much more serious than Iwaizumi remembered. He supposed everyone had changed during his two years away.

“Destroy Shiratorizawa,” said Hanamaki. He lounged back in his chair, the flaps of his jacket falling back to flash guns identical to Yahaba’s.

“That would be ideal,” said Oikawa with a vague smile. “Not exactly helpful, though, Makki. Anyone else? Other than Mattsun?”

Matsukawa closed his mouth and shared a smirk with Hanamaki.

“Obviously we have to confirm that Shiratorizawa is actually responsible,” said Yahaba. “If we act without certainty then we leave ourselves vulnerable.”

Despite himself, Iwaizumi was a little impressed. Yahaba had definitely grown.

“Of course they’re responsible,” said Oikawa. “It was one of their guns.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Every head turned toward Iwaizumi. He suddenly wished he’d kept his mouth shut. 

Oikawa raised a brow, prompting him to continue.

“You know they sell guns to other syndicates,” said Iwaizumi. “I’m sure they sell the forty-fives, too. Ushijima isn’t petty enough to keep them exclusive to Shiratorizawa.”

Oikawa waved off the comment. “It doesn’t matter whether they sell them or not. Ushiwaka did this. We just have to prove it.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Iwaizumi. The room had already been fairly quiet, but now silence fell like a toxic fog. The tension was stifling. “You’re so fucking biased against Ushijima that you’d blame him for anything.”

Oikawa studied him closely, his expression unreadable. Iwaizumi’s nerves pulled more tightly. He was already on thin ice. He needed to learn to keep his mouth shut before someone crammed the barrel of a gun into it. 

This wasn’t two years ago, when he could have said anything to Oikawa with impunity.

“Then who do you think slaughtered two families on Seijoh territory?” said Oikawa slowly. “Please, Detective Iwa-chan. Enlighten us.”

“I’m not a detective,” said Iwaizumi, the denial automatic. He licked his lips, thinking. “This doesn’t seem like something Ushijima – or Shiratorizawa, for that matter – would do. They settle their debts, but not like this. Ushijima is all about the business. He never takes anything personally, and these killings were definitely personal. Besides, Shiratorizawa avoids Seijoh territory. They have no motive. Whoever did this was directly linked to the victims in some way. Since these were low-level Seijoh members, Shiratorizawa wouldn’t have anything to do with them. They wouldn’t be here.” 

“I saw one of them in our part of the city a couple of weeks ago,” said Kunimi.

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed slightly. Iwaizumi felt rather than saw Kindaichi’s shoulders stiffen beside him.

“One of them?” repeated Oikawa.

Across the table, Kunimi shrugged. “A Shiratori. One of Ushijima’s favorites.” His tone was as bored as ever. Perhaps not everyone had changed.

Oikawa leaned forward in his seat, his laser-focus burning through Kunimi. “Which one?”

Kunimi appeared as if he was largely unaffected by the attention, but Iwaizumi detected the minute tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his arms crossed a little more tightly. “The creepy one. Tall, red hair, big eyes.”

Oikawa sat back in his chair and frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“He was buying candy at a convenience store,” said Kunimi. He shrugged it off, but beneath the gesture his tension was still visible, like a transparent live wire. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Oikawa leaned back and turned his gaze toward the ceiling to think. Kunimi’s shoulders dropped a little in subtle relief, and beside him Iwaizumi saw Kindaichi’s do the same.

“When was the last killing, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi looked at him. Oikawa still watched the ceiling, brows furrowed. 

He didn’t know why Oikawa felt the need to give him such a stupid nickname, but he supposed now wasn’t the time to contest it. “Ten days ago.”

“Kunimi, when was the exact date you saw him?”

“I’m not sure. It might’ve been ten days or it might’ve been a couple more. I can’t remember.”

Oikawa’s gaze dropped from the ceiling and settled decisively on Iwaizumi. “Tell us about Shiratorizawa’s monster.”

Iwaizumi felt the eyes all around the table return to him. “I only know what I knew two years ago. I don’t have new information.”

“Tell us about the monster, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi gritted his teeth and looked down at his hands. He fished around in his memory for all of the scattered pieces of trivia that he’d collected about Ushijima’s syndicate. 

When he’d worked for the police, his job had been to gather as much information about the yakuza as possible.

When he’d worked for Seijoh, his purpose had been largely the same. He supposed that was one of the key reasons that Oikawa had chosen to keep him around for this. Even after a two-year break, he still had more information about yakuza members buried away in his memory than anyone else in Tokyo.

“Tendou Satori,” he finally said, when he felt he’d dredged up as much as he could. “Twenty-eight… No, thirty years old. He was born in Miyagi and moved to Tokyo at the age of thirteen. He’s good with a gun just like the rest of them, but he also has a penchant for knives. Unlike most, he isn’t just suspected of being yakuza. The police _know_ he’s part of Shiratorizawa. He’s been questioned on-record several times, but he always manages to avoid formal charges. They can’t pin anything solid on him.”

Iwaizumi paused, still filtering through his mental files. The room was completely silent.

“As soon as Ushijima took over Shiratorizawa, he appointed Tendou as one of his top-tier members,” said Iwaizumi. “No one was going to question Ushijima, but they thought it was a strange decision. Before that, Tendou had been ostracized by the other members. He’d been used only for low-level work that no one else wanted to do. He’s done well for Ushijima, though. He’s one of his most valuable assets. He’s called the Monster of Shiratorizawa because of his tendency toward brutality. Even some of Ushijima’s men are scared of him.”

“Brutality,” Oikawa repeated with a wry smirk. “I would consider murdering an entire family in cold blood to be an act of brutality.”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “Doesn’t seem like his style. He likes to cut people up. He’d be bored just shooting them.”

“But if Ushiwaka ordered him to only shoot them,” said Oikawa, “he’d do it.”

Iwaizumi tried to suppress his buzz of irritation. He couldn’t snap at Oikawa in this sort of tense situation. He had to keep his temper in check. “Probably,” said Iwaizumi, “but I still think you’re just reaching for a reason to blame Ushijima.”

Oikawa waved away the comment. “Whatever you say, Iwa-chan. Hypothetically speaking, if Ushijima ordered this type of killing, wouldn’t he send the Monster to do it?”

“I don’t think he would order anyone to do this,” said Iwaizumi.

Oikawa’s eyes flashed. “ _Hypothetically_ speaking. Answer the question.”

Iwaizumi clenched his fists beneath the table. “I would guess that he’d send Shirabu. Tendou has a tendency to get carried away. Shirabu would do the job and get out.”

Oikawa sighed. His lip jutted out a little, caught somewhere between a frown and a pout. “I hate Shirabu.”

“You hate all of them, boss,” said Hanamaki. 

“You’re not wrong.”

“We still need proof,” said Yahaba. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried anyway. “How do you plan to get it?”

Oikawa pondered for a moment. Then a slow smile pulled at his face. “I know exactly how to get it.” His eyes darted to Iwaizumi, who almost winced beneath the sharpness of his gaze. “Change out of those rags and put on something decent, Iwa-chan. We leave in an hour.”

  
  
  
  
  


*********  
**Two Years Ago**  
*********

 

 

 

During his first few months under Oikawa’s employ, Iwaizumi was usually paired up with one of the other members when sent out to complete tasks. Most often it was Kindaichi, but occasionally he would be assigned to Watari instead. He’d expected to be teamed up with Hanamaki or Matsukawa since they were the most senior members, but it seemed that Oikawa was making a point to keep Iwaizumi away from them as much as possible in the context of business. He didn’t understand why at the time, but it became clear after a few months of exposure.

Kindaichi pulled the car up to the curb and shifted into park. He leaned forward to peer up at the apartment building towering above them. “Which number?”

“414,” recited Iwaizumi. 

Kindaichi nodded. “Right. Let’s go.”

They got out of the car, shut the doors quietly, and walked toward the building. Iwaizumi stayed a half-step behind Kindaichi. He felt like he was in field training again with the police department. Back then he’d been assigned to an officer who was responsible for making sure he knew what he was doing well enough to keep himself from getting killed.

That was Kindaichi’s current role, too. He was tasked to teach Iwaizumi the rules of Seijoh so Iwaizumi could work independently in the future. 

They took the stairs to the fourth floor and found the correct number easily. Kindaichi knocked on the door and then stepped to the side, out of sight should the occupant choose to look through the peep hole. Iwaizumi mimicked him on instinct. The parallels between this assignment and his past police work were becoming even clearer. 

After a moment there was sound from behind the closed door. Footsteps approached and then stopped. Iwaizumi held his breath as the door rattled and opened only a crack.

“Who’s it?”

The man got his answer, but not in the way that he would have liked. Kindaichi slammed his shoulder into the door and forced it open, sending the man sprawling back. Iwaizumi quickly followed and closed the door behind them to prevent unwanted attention.

“Nishimura,” said Kindaichi, stalking closer to the man who’d retreated toward the living room. “You have something that belongs to Oikawa. Either give me what you owe or you’ll pay him back in blood.”

This was where the similarity to police work ended.

Nishimura looked between Kindaichi and Iwaizumi, who’d stopped a short distance away from the confrontation. He weighed his options and then turned on his heel, sprinting toward the open door on the far side of the room. 

He didn’t make it.

Kindaichi surged forward and caught him by the back of his shirt. He swung around and threw Nishimura to the floor, where he landed with a thud and a gasp. He scrambled backward and his back struck the corner of the couch, preventing his retreat. Kindaichi towered over him, his height making him a formidable blockade. Nishimura glanced toward the door again, craned his head back to look at Kindaichi, and then seemed to cave inward on himself as he gave up.

Kindaichi’s eyes flitted to Iwaizumi. He looked almost self-conscious, as if he feared Iwaizumi was judging him in some way. 

His focus returned to Nishimura. “Where is Oikawa’s money?”

“I’ll pay it back when I get it,” the man said weakly. “I swear I’m doing everything I can. I just need a little more time.”

Kindaichi sighed, and it seemed to be for dramatic effect. He dipped a hand into his coat and unholstered a sleek black pistol. He stepped back and leveled the barrel at Nishimura’s forehead. “Your time has run out. Where’s the money, Nishimura?”

The blood drained from Nishimura’s face as he stared up at the gun. “Please. Please, I swear I’ll get it, I just-”

Kindaichi pressed the barrel right between the man’s brows. “ _The money._ ”

Nishimura closed his eyes. Iwaizumi heard his ragged breaths from all the way across the room. 

“I don’t have all of it,” said Nishimura weakly. “I’ve got about half, but… but my daughter. She’s sick, and she’s been staying in the hospital, but if I don’t pay them then she’ll have to leave and I’m afraid if they send her home, she… she won’t…”

“Where?”

Nishimura swallowed. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly. “In the freezer.”

Kindaichi gave Iwaizumi a look, and he obediently stepped into the kitchen. He had to turn his back to the room in order to rifle through the freezer. It made him a little uncomfortable, because he’d been taught to always keep a threat within his line of sight.

As an officer, a yakuza member like Kindaichi was definitely a threat.

Still, he found that he trusted Kindaichi to watch his back as he fished out a wad of yen from behind a box of frozen chicken.

He waved it toward Kindaichi and then unrolled it, flicking through the bills and adding up the total in his head.

“Two twenty-five,” he said, folding them back together. He tucked the money into an inner pocket in his coat. 

Kindaichi prodded the gun against Nishimura’s forehead. “You owe Oikawa five hundred thousand,” he growled. “That’s not even half.”

“I know, I know,” he said, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry, it’s all I have. I swear I’ll get the rest soon. Please just give me a chance.”

Kindaichi considered him, then his eyes darted to Iwaizumi. Kindaichi took a breath, pulled his arm back, and then slammed the pistol into the man’s jaw. 

A sickly thud split the air. Nishimura collapsed onto his side, clutching feebly at his face. A dribble of distressed cries tumbled from his lips, just as viscous as the blood dripping out of his mouth.

“You have five days,” said Kindaichi. “I’ll be back for the rest then. If you don’t have everything that you owe, you’re not getting another chance. If you try to run I’ll go collect it from your daughter instead.”

Nishimura spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and nodded frantically. “Yes! Yes, I’ll have it, yes. I swear. Thank you, tell Oikawa-san thank you.”

Kindaichi reholstered his gun and turned on his heel. He stalked out of the apartment and Iwaizumi followed, throwing one last glance back at Nishimura before exiting into the hall.

They didn’t speak as they descended the stairs, nor as they walked to the car. It was only after they were inside the idling vehicle, seatbelts clicked into place, that Kindaichi spoke.

“I don’t like these kinds of errands.” He gripped the wheel even though he hadn’t yet started driving, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “Usually I send someone beneath me to handle it. Oikawa wanted me to do this one myself though, so you could see it firsthand.” He turned his head slowly. Iwaizumi couldn’t pinpoint the emotion clouding his eyes. 

“I don’t like hurting people,” said Kindaichi quietly. “I would rather take pain than give it to someone else. But that’s not how this works. If Oikawa wants someone’s teeth knocked in, I’ll do it. If he wants someone’s eyes gouged out, I’ll do it. If he wants someone dead…” Kindaichi hesitated, his gaze flickering away from Iwaizumi. “Then I’ll kill them. That’s what it means to be yakuza. That’s what it means to be Seijoh. You’ve got to understand that. If Oikawa tells you to cut someone’s throat, you have to be willing to do it without question. I invited you into this, Watanabe. Oikawa brought you into his fold and made us equals, but I still feel responsible for you. If something happens because you weren’t ready for this then I’ll never forgive myself.”

Kindaichi had never seemed like the type of man to become involved with the yakuza. Iwaizumi had gotten to know him fairly well over the past year. Since Kindaichi was of a high rank in Seijoh, there were a number of men who reported directly to him. Iwaizumi had become one of them when he’d been tasked to infiltrate the syndicate. He’d done small missions for Kindaichi, but had never been ordered to do anything as serious as the errand they’d just completed. 

Though Kindaichi hadn’t had any difficulty earning respect from his subordinates, he’d always seemed a little too quiet and mild for the yakuza. He appeared to be a genuinely good person, which had always left Iwaizumi wondering why he was involved with a crime organization at all.

It would be a while later that he would learn that good people and yakuza members did not exist in mutually exclusive categories.

“Why do you do it?” said Iwaizumi. He feared the question would push the boundaries between them, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. 

Kindaichi was quiet. He still gripped the steering wheel like it was tethering him to the present. 

Finally he said, “Seijoh is my family. I live for them, and when the time comes, I’ll die for them.”

He said it with such conviction that a shiver raced down Iwaizumi’s spine. It wasn’t the explanation that he’d been hoping for, but he didn’t press further. 

“Can you do it?” said Kindaichi. “Anything Oikawa asks of you. Can you do it?”

The answer was a resounding _no_. He could justify certain minor crimes by insisting it was for the greater good, but if it came down to torture or murder, he wouldn’t be able to go forward. To do so would be to shatter the rules that had been put in place for him by the police department. He could only go so far before he was considered a rogue officer and prosecuted for his crimes, greater good or not.

Even if he hadn’t been bound by the threat of the law, he knew there were some things he would never condone, anyway. 

Iwaizumi would never kill anyone, not for Oikawa or anyone else.

“Yes,” he said, the word clear and confident. He looked Kindaichi in the eye and said, “I can do it.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! I hope you're all having a great week! ^^

Oikawa’s chauffeur parked the car outside one of the finest restaurants in the city. The vehicle idled quietly and he turned around to say, “We’ve arrived, Oikawa-san. Would you like me to wait or return?”

Oikawa frowned as he considered. “Come back in half an hour. It may take longer, but you can wait from there. I’ll call if I need you sooner.”

The chauffeur inclined his head. “Of course, Oikawa-san.”

Iwaizumi pushed the car door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A single man stood by the door of the restaurant, and considering the type of establishment, he looked extremely out of place. Even if Iwaizumi hadn’t recognized his face, he would have known he was yakuza. No one else would have been lingering about at that hour. Early afternoon was too soon for this restaurant to be open to the public.

The man eyed Iwaizumi suspiciously through a curl of smoke. His eyes were dark, ringed by deep circles, and framed by dip-dyed hair. He exhaled, and more smoke unfurled from between his parted lips.

It was only when Oikawa stepped out of the car that the man reacted. His cigarette slipped through his fingers and rolled away on the sidewalk, the orange ember flaring. His face remained composed, but his surprise was clear in the minute widening of his eyes. 

“Oikawa-san,” he said as the two of them approached. The car pulled away from the curb and merged back into the press of traffic. “This is unexpected.”

Oikawa smiled, carnivorous. “I’m full of surprises. So, umm…” He glanced to Iwaizumi with a raised brow.

“Semi,” Iwaizumi provided with a scowl. 

He knew perfectly well that Oikawa knew Semi’s name. He was being intentionally condescending. 

“That’s right! Semi-chan,” said Oikawa brightly. “Run along and tell Ushiwaka I need to see him. It’s urgent.”

Semi scowled, but it was only a front for the flicker of concern beneath. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

“Come on now, Semi-chan,” said Oikawa. “At least invite us inside. It’s unseasonably warm out.”

Semi’s brows pulled together, forming deep parallel etches along his forehead. He considered, and said, “You can wait in the lobby.” He stood sideways as he unlocked the restaurant door, keeping Oikawa and Iwaizumi in sight. He waved them in first and followed closely behind. “Have a seat,” he said, waving toward the intricate wrought-iron chairs arranged by the door. “I’ll tell the boss you’re here.”

Iwaizumi watched him leave the room. Semi walked with his left arm held slightly away from his body, and Iwaizumi knew there was a frighteningly large gun strapped against his ribs.

Oikawa didn’t sit. As soon as Semi was out of sight, the faux pleasant expression dripped off of his face like acid, leaving only a curl of bitterness in its wake. 

“This place is ridiculous,” Oikawa hissed. He kept his voice low, which was fortunate. The high ceiling was prone to echoes. “That idiot Ushiwaka is just begging for attention. He needs to keep a low profile.”

Iwaizumi gave him a flat stare. Oikawa had no place lecturing anyone about keeping a low profile.

He didn’t say anything, but Oikawa must have sensed the direction of his thoughts. “Something to say, Iwa-chan?”

“Is there a reason why you’re calling me that or are you just trying to get on my nerves?”

It was a little rude, and much too brash, but Iwaizumi was finding it difficult to express pure, unfiltered respect toward Oikawa, although he was aware of the potential consequences if he didn’t. He’d gotten to know Oikawa too well. He knew his flaws and his habits and had witnessed many of his mistakes. After what they’d been through, it was impossible for him to not be a little too blunt.

Oikawa appeared unoffended. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” he said. “I want to call you by your _real_ name now. I never knew it before since you spent a year lying to me.”

Iwaizumi pretended that didn’t hurt. “My name is Iwaizumi.”

“That’s what I said. Iwa-chan.”

“Oikawa-”

“The boss will see you,” said Semi. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded, expression even sterner than it had been a few moments before. “He’s upstairs.”

Oikawa brushed past Semi and started toward the staircase. “I can find him myself. Thanks, Semi-chan.”

Semi said something under his breath, so quietly that Iwaizumi, who had just stepped past him, couldn’t make out the words. That was probably for the best. Oikawa didn’t handle insults very well. 

Iwaizumi followed Oikawa and Semi followed him, his footsteps quiet. 

Iwaizumi had a sizeable mental file about Semi Eita. He’d started out in a street gang when he was twelve, and was arrested for the first time when he was fourteen. He joined up with Shiratorizawa at the age of seventeen and hadn’t had any run-ins with the police since. He’d worked for the previous boss, the one that had been in charge before Ushijima had taken over. 

Every member of Shiratorizawa was a skilled marksman, but Semi’s specialty was sharpshooting. 

A few years before, one of the elite members of Fukurodani had been assassinated from four city blocks away. The bullet had pierced his temple and lodged in his brain. It had been a flawless shot by a terrifyingly accurate sniper, and though the police had never discovered who the culprit had been, Iwaizumi had found out from an overheard discussion between Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

The best sharpshooter in Tokyo picked up his pace and cut in front of Oikawa. “I’ll take you to him,” said Semi, a growl buzzing beneath his tone. “Just follow me.”

“Someone is in a bad mood, huh, Iwa-chan?” said Oikawa. 

Semi tightly gripped the handrail of the stairs but said nothing.

Iwaizumi wanted to tell Oikawa to keep his mouth shut before he got his head blown off from six hundred meters away.

Instead he followed along in Oikawa’s wake, counting the stairs as they ascended. When they reached the top, Semi led them to one of the private dining areas that contained only a few secluded tables. The space was reserved for members of Shiratorizawa only, so they could discuss questionable exploits without fear of being overheard by the public.

Just before they entered the room, another man sauntered out, his huge eyes flashing in Oikawa’s direction. Iwaizumi recognized him with a jolt of panic. His hand twitched toward his jacket, where his guns should have been concealed, but then fell uselessly back to his side. He didn’t have guns anymore. Oikawa hadn’t entrusted him with weapons, and Iwaizumi didn’t really blame him.

They’d just been talking about the Monster of Shiratorizawa that morning, but speaking of him and seeing him were entirely different experiences.

Tendou Satori was tall, lean, and inexplicably dangerous. His very presence unsettled Iwaizumi, but that may not have been solely a result of his appearance. It may have been in part because Iwaizumi knew Tendou’s kill count.

Or he had two years ago. He didn’t even want to know how highly it had inflated since then.

“Hello, Oikawa-san,” said Tendou. Even his voice was unsettling. It lilted, the syllables bleeding together choppily. “Have you come to join us? We’re always accepting applications. I can’t guarantee you’ll be accepted, but it’s worth a shot.” His eyes tracked from Oikawa to Iwaizumi and a slow, mocking smile stretched his mouth. “Sorry to say you’ll definitely be rejected. We don’t accept police or turncoats, and it seems you’re both, Iwaizumi Hajime.”

His name rolled off of Tendou’s tongue easily, like smooth, warped satin.

Iwaizumi bristled, but it was Oikawa who spoke.

“I recommend,” he said, “that you don’t concern yourself with Seijoh’s affairs. Whatever Iwaizumi may be, it is none of your business. It is mine.”

Tendou’s eyes narrowed into slits as his leer widened. His teeth were a little crooked. “Is that so?”

“Tendou.” Semi’s warning was as sharp as a knife’s edge. “Not now.”

Tendou rolled his head toward Semi, still wearing that ever-present, eerie smile. “Whatever you say, Semi-Semi.” He wiggled his fingers at Oikawa in a farewell wave and swaggered off, his lanky arms dangling at his sides. 

His lackadaisical gait hid it well, but Iwaizumi knew he was heavily armed, as well.

Oikawa should have brought someone else with him. If this went badly, Iwaizumi would be less than useless in a gunfight. The most he could do would be using his body to shield Oikawa from oncoming bullets, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t willing to go to that extreme.

Two years ago, maybe. 

But things had changed.

“The boss is waiting,” said Semi. He stepped back to wave them inside. His features were tight, reflecting visible strain. “Please don’t mind Tendou.” It was said in the tone of an apology, which was unexpected. Semi seemed to be the sort of man who apologized for nothing.

“No worries, Semi-chan,” said Oikawa. He spoke lightly, but his eyes were still sharp. “Thank you for being so incredibly helpful and accommodating.”

The sarcasm was suffocating, but Semi said nothing as Oikawa moved past with Iwaizumi only a step behind.

The room beyond was an elegant spread of white-clothed tables and crystal clear wine glasses. The vaulted ceiling was supported by gleaming oak beams that matched the glossy bar against the wall. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi sat at one of the centermost tables. Though he was the only occupant of the room, his presence was large enough to saturate the entire space.

“Oikawa,” he said. His voice was a deep rumble, echoing from the walls of the room. “I did not expect you.”

“This must be quite the pleasant surprise for you then, Ushiwaka-chan,” said Oikawa brightly. Judging by appearance alone, he’d completely shed his irritation from a few moments before. 

Iwaizumi had always thought that was one of the most terrifying things about Oikawa Tooru. His charisma made him a force to be reckoned with, he could turn off inconvenient emotions with a flick of a switch, and he could flawlessly arrange his face into the most perfect of masks.

Oikawa had called Tendou Satori a monster. It seemed Oikawa could recognize his own kind.

Oikawa strode through the dining room as if he owned it. His steps were slow and measured, and Iwaizumi would have thought his pace was for dramatic effect had he not walked the same way even before they had arrived.

It was a distinct change. Oikawa used to walk faster, something Iwaizumi had repeatedly griped about. Maybe two years of aging had convinced Oikawa to slow down a little. Maybe, but Iwaizumi suspected it had nothing to do with age.

Oikawa seated himself across from Ushijima at the round table. Iwaizumi moved closer and stood uncertainly behind one of the vacant chairs, glancing at Oikawa for instruction.

“Have a seat,” said Ushijima. 

Oikawa gave a quick nod. Iwaizumi pulled out the chair, slightly angled it so he had a better view of the door, and sat.

Iwaizumi had assumed that Oikawa would want to speak to Ushijima privately. He had assumed incorrectly.

“Welcome, Oikawa,” said Ushijima. “If you had informed me about your visit I would have called in one of my chefs.”

Oikawa laughed, but Iwaizumi saw the subtle flash of irritation behind his smiling eyes. “Don’t worry about that, Ushiwaka-chan. This is for business, not pleasure. Though I would not be opposed to a drink.”

Ushijima took his cellphone from the table and tapped out a quick message. Then he looked to Iwaizumi. “I do not know your name.”

Iwaizumi glanced at Oikawa before he answered. “Iwaizumi Hajime.”

Ushijima considered him, his face unchanging. “You’re the detective.”

He felt a nervous twinge. “Not anymore.”

Ushijima’s hard stare lingered. Then he dismissed Iwaizumi in favor of Oikawa. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, I just needed to ask you about something,” said Oikawa. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. “I have a situation. It appears that someone came onto my territory and murdered two of my low-ranking members. That didn’t satisfy them, so they killed their entire families as well. Would you happen to know anything about that, Ushiwaka-chan?”

The question had been posed lightly, but still Iwaizumi felt the tension of accusation bleed into the air. 

When Oikawa had said he had a plan, Iwaizumi hadn’t thought it was to barge into the depths of Shiratorizawa and accuse their leader of murder.

Oikawa was going to get himself killed.

There was a light rap at the door. “Ushijima-san?”

Ushijima didn’t take his eyes away from Oikawa as he waved the new arrival forward. Iwaizumi looked away from their silent stare-off to study the man who crossed the room with a bottle of sake in hand. 

Iwaizumi’s first assumption was that the man was part of the waitstaff. His opinion changed quickly as he studied the man’s gait, which was smooth yet careful, his strides long yet light. As he approached the table he gravitated toward Ushijima, as if he was in orbit and Ushijima was the sun. 

He was new yakuza, then. 

The man moved to place the bottle on the table but Oikawa said, “I have to pour my own drink? That’s bad service, Ushiwaka-chan.”

Iwaizumi wanted to slap him.

Ushijima inclined his head toward the glasses in the center of the table. The man took one and poured it half-full before placing it in front of Oikawa. His fingers shook a little, but it seemed to be from excitement rather than nerves.

“Thank you, Goshiki,” said Ushijima. “Leave the bottle. You may go.”

“Yes!” said Goshiki, a shade too loudly. He trotted out of the room. 

“You’ve got money, Ushiwaka-chan,” mused Oikawa. “You should use it to buy that kid a decent haircut. Would you like a drink, Iwa-chan?”

Tension crackled like lightning beneath Iwaizumi’s skin. If he died here because of Oikawa’s carelessness he would be furious. “No.”

Oikawa shrugged and took a sip.

“Are you asking,” said Ushijima, his voice eerily calm, “if I am responsible for killing your men and their families?”

Oikawa hummed. “Not you, necessarily. Any of your people. Shiratorizawa in general.”

“I only kill when it is necessary.”

“Well maybe you thought it was necessary, Waka-chan,” said Oikawa. “Did you do it or not?”

“Oikawa.” Iwaizumi’s voice was low, steeped in warning.

He was ignored.

“No,” said Ushijima flatly. “I did not.”

“Are you sure about that?” said Oikawa. He licked a drop of sake off of his upper lip. “It was a Shiratorizawa Special. Their brains were blown right out of their skulls by a .45.”

“Do you sell that caliber to other syndicates,” said Iwaizumi, hoping the question would deflect attention away from Oikawa’s impudence, “or do you keep it exclusively for Shiratorizawa?”

Ushijima looked at him, and for a moment Iwaizumi thought he wouldn’t answer. He had no reason to, really. Iwaizumi was no one.

“It is rare that they are purchased,” said Ushijima, “but I will provide them if requested. Keeping them only for my men would be pointless pride. A gun is a gun. If there is money to be made then I will sell any kind.”

Oikawa opened his mouth, but Iwaizumi spoke first. “Have you sold any of them to other syndicates in the past few months?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“My sales are confidential.”

Oikawa’s fingers tightened around his glass. “When I said they killed their entire families, I meant their _entire families._ There were kids, Ushiwaka.”

Ushijima’s face remained unchanged. “That is unfortunate.”

“Tell me who bought the guns. I need to find who did this.”

“As I said, my sales are confidential.”

“People are _dead_.”

“I did not kill them.”

“But you can help me figure out who did so it doesn’t happen again.”

Ushijima’s eyebrows tucked together, just slightly. “Are you truly concerned about people dying, or are you only offended that someone killed something that belonged to you?”

All emotion bled away from Oikawa’s face. It was a red flag that Iwaizumi had learned to recognize a long time ago.

“Let’s go, Oikawa,” he said, scooting his chair back and standing. “The car should be waiting.”

Oikawa didn’t respond. He continued to stare at Ushijima, his face so blank that it was frightening.

Iwaizumi gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “Oikawa.”

Oikawa slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

Iwaizumi withdrew, and Oikawa’s face finally changed. It shifted into a smile, but it was so false that Iwaizumi expected the façade to crack apart at any moment. 

“I’ll be going,” said Oikawa. “Thanks for nothing, Ushiwaka-chan.”

Ushijima nodded. “It was good to see you, Oikawa. As always, my previous offer still stands. If you become tired of Seijoh there is always a place for you here at Shiratorizawa.”

Iwaizumi didn’t have to see Oikawa’s face to know he was on the verge of absolute fury. 

Despite the prior warning, Iwaizumi gripped Oikawa’s arm, just above his elbow. “Let’s _go._ ”

Oikawa stiffened, his muscles tensing beneath Iwaizumi’s fingers. With a swift pull, Oikawa yanked his arm away and backhanded Iwaizumi across the face. 

The crack of the impact was loud, echoing from the vaulted ceiling.

The side of Iwaizumi’s face burned, but not as hotly as the rage on Oikawa’s face. “I said _don’t touch me_.”

Iwaizumi took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

“And don’t speak to me so informally,” snapped Oikawa. “You don’t have that privilege. Not after what you did.”

Something hot and bitter burst in Iwaizumi’s chest. It felt a little like guilt and a lot like shame. 

Despite Oikawa’s impressive control over his emotions, it wasn’t unheard of for him to completely snap. It was a rarity, but Iwaizumi had personally witnessed Oikawa lose control on a few horrifying occasions.

The most memorable was when one of his men had stolen money from him. Normally that would be a new victim for Kyoutani, but Oikawa had been too furious to think that through. He’d put a bullet through the man’s skull and blown blood and brains and bits of bone all over his office wall.

That had been two years ago. With the sound of the gunshot still ringing in their ears, Oikawa had turned to Iwaizumi. His face had been splashed with scarlet and his eyes were dangerously bright. 

“Oops,” he’d said, blood dripping from his chin. “Sorry you had to see that, Hajime. I got a little too worked up.”

Iwaizumi had learned quickly that Oikawa valued his pride above nearly anything else. The quickest way to spark his rage was to disrespect him.

With that in mind, Iwaizumi lowered his head and said, “I apologize, Oikawa-san. Please forgive me.”

Oikawa brushed past him without speaking, which was the best that Iwaizumi could hope for, considering the circumstances. He turned to follow, sparing one last glance for Ushijima.

He looked unaffected by the display, just as he appeared unaffected by anything else.

Iwaizumi wondered if Ushijima said things like that to Oikawa intentionally. He seemed to be distantly unaware of the impact that his words could cause, but Iwaizumi wasn’t quite convinced.

Just as he stepped into the hall, Iwaizumi could have sworn he saw Ushijima smirk.

But that may have just been a trick of the light. 

  
  
  
  
  
****

*********  
**Two Years Ago**  
*********

 

 

 

The first time Iwaizumi met Ushijima Wakatoshi had not been under the best of circumstances.

It was rare that any single issue managed to catch the attention of every yakuza group in Tokyo. It was rarer still that they were all of the same mind that something needed to be done about it.

Kuroo Tetsurou initiated the meeting. He’d been the boss of Nekoma for longer than either Ushijima or Oikawa had controlled their own syndicates. Kuroo was clever and perceptive and extremely dangerous.

“Something needs to be done,” said Kuroo, from his place at the head of the table, “about Fukurodani.”

Bokuto Koutarou, Kuroo’s second-in-command, nodded at his side.

The atmosphere in the room was solemn. They all knew about the incident that had caused Kuroo to hold the meeting, and they all knew Fukurodani had crossed a line.

Typically the different syndicates made a point to stay out of each other’s business. That was best for each group and best for the city as a whole. If they got into conflicts over every minor situation, the resulting casualties would be catastrophic.

But Kuroo wasn’t wrong. Something needed to be done.

“Eighteen women,” said Kuroo. Iwaizumi had met him a few times before, and on those occasions he’d been grinning. He wasn’t now. “The police found eighteen women in one apartment, ready to be sold. Prostitution is one thing. Fukurodani has been running the city’s prostitution ring for years. That’s fine. They can do what they want with that. When they crossed the line into sex trafficking is when it became a problem.”

“The police are involved,” said Ushijima. “We must put a stop to this before they expand their investigation. Once their focus is on the yakuza they will not differentiate between our groups.”

He was much less flashy than the other bosses, but no less intimidating. He had a quiet intensity about him that made Iwaizumi immediately wary. As often as Oikawa complained about Shiratorizawa, Iwaizumi was already predisposed to dislike Ushijima.

The man who Ushijima had brought with him also had a silent yet strong presence. Iwaizumi had never seen him, but he’d heard of him. Oohira Reon had been loyal to Shiratorizawa for years. He’d served under the previous boss and had immediately been appointed as Ushijima’s advisor when he'd taken command.

“What do you suggest we do, Ushiwaka-chan?” said Oikawa with a bitter smile. “Are you going to march over to Fukurodani and put a stop to it yourself?”

“I will do what I must.”

It was said with conviction, and Oikawa was clearly annoyed.

“It’s not like this is unheard of,” said Kuroo. “There’s a group in Hamamatsu who have the most profitable trafficking ring in the country. The yakuza isn’t above it. But…” he looked to each of them, something fierce flashing in his eyes. “This isn’t going to happen in my city.”

“ _Your_ city?” scoffed Oikawa. “I think not, Tetsu-chan.”

Ushijima nodded. “Statistically speaking, Shiratorizawa has more control over Tokyo than the other syndicates.”

Iwaizumi saw Oikawa’s jaw clench as he gritted his teeth.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Kuroo. “The point is, even if we could look over the questionable morality” – Iwaizumi thought that was ironic, considering some of the things he knew Kuroo had done – “we can’t overlook the fact that this is going to affect all of us. The police already watch us closely enough. If they’re actively coming after us, it’s going to be a bloodbath on both sides.”

Iwaizumi’s heart rate skittered a little higher, but he otherwise didn’t react to the mention of the police.

“What do you recommend, Tetsu-chan?”

“I think it’s useless to try and talk them down,” said Kuroo, “but I still think we have to try. If they don’t listen then we may have to take more drastic measures for our own protection.”

His tone left little guesswork as to which drastic measures he meant.

Beside him, Bokuto winced.

“I’m meeting with Fukurodani’s boss later this week,” Kuroo continued. He drummed his fingers against the table. “I’ll see if I can make any progress. I just wanted to make sure we were all in agreement before I moved forward. Nekoma could handle this alone, but I felt it was best to include the two of you since it affects all of us.”

“So considerate, Tetsu-chan,” said Oikawa with a grin. 

“If you need assistance let me know,” said Ushijima. “I also disagree with the nature of this business. It must be dealt with.”

“Alright. It’s settled, then.” Kuroo clapped his hands together and grinned. Something about the expression was smugly feline. “Mission ‘Shut down Fukurodani’ has begun.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I turned this into a series and added a Tensemi side story. If you're interested, you can find it [ here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12815421/chapters/29256408)

Iwaizumi didn’t see Oikawa for the next couple of days.

Yahaba was the one who most often spoke to him, asking questions that had almost certainly come from Oikawa himself. It was clear that Oikawa did not want to speak to him, and Iwaizumi didn’t really blame him. Not because of the incident at Ushijima’s place, but for the incident of two years ago. 

He was surprised that Oikawa had been able to act so normally around him when he’d returned. Iwaizumi knew he must have still been angry. The yakuza took their honor and their grudges very seriously, and none more so than prideful Oikawa Tooru.

Iwaizumi didn’t know what was to become of him now. Maybe Oikawa was planning to kill him once the investigation was over and Sawamura was no longer invested. He would probably make it a slow and painful process. A long time ago, Oikawa had shown Iwaizumi what happened to the men that betrayed him.

The only small consolation was that Kyoutani was still in police custody, which meant he wouldn’t be the one to tear Iwaizumi apart.

He’d overheard some of the others discussing Kyoutani. They didn’t know where he was, only that he’d gone missing after failing to complete his last errand. The initial assumption was that he may have been apprehended, but Watari had hacked into the Tokyo jail’s database and confirmed that Kyoutani’s name was not among the list of inmates.

Sawamura must have still been keeping him in the cells beneath the police station, probably for that exact reason. If Kyoutani showed up on the prison registry then Seijoh would figure out a way to get him released.

Iwaizumi had no ill will against Kyoutani in particular, but he hoped he at least remained in Sawamura's hands until his issues with Oikawa were resolved. He knew what Kyoutani would do to him, if given the opportunity.

It wasn't something he liked to think about. 

A muted beep sounded from the door of his room, and Iwaizumi sat upright. 

He’d spent the majority of the past two days in his room, trapped because he didn’t know the keycode to gain entry or exit. He was given food, and Yahaba stopped by for brief conversations, but he still felt like a dog in a cage.

He expected to see Yahaba again, but when the door opened, it was Kindaichi on the other side.

He stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking at the wall instead of Iwaizumi. “Oikawa wants to see you.”

Iwaizumi should have been apprehensive. Instead he was a little relieved. “In his office?”

“Upstairs.”

Iwaizumi wasn’t sure what to make of that. If Oikawa wanted to talk about the case, his office would be the best choice. It was the most tightly secured space in the entire building. 

He couldn’t comprehend why Oikawa would want to meet with him upstairs in the late evening, when the club’s activities were at their peak.

“Okay,” said Iwaizumi. He climbed off of the bed, wondered if he should change out of his jeans, and decided against it. He slipped into his shoes and followed Kindaichi into the hallway.

The walk to the stairs was awkward. Iwaizumi expected it, but it didn’t make it any more bearable.

He’d considered Kindaichi a close friend once. He’d respected him, and liked to think Kindaichi had respected him in return.

He supposed he’d long since ruined that.

When they reached the door to the stairs Kindaichi stopped. “Oikawa is in one of the private rooms,” he said. “Number three.”

Iwaizumi just looked at him.

“Go on up,” said Kindaichi. He tilted his head toward the stairs. “He’s waiting for you.”

Iwaizumi belatedly realized Kindaichi wasn’t going to escort him all the way there.

“Okay,” said Iwaizumi. He shuffled his feet, started to move, but instead asked, “Have you been alright?”

Kindaichi’s stare was blank. His brow furrowed as he mulled over the question, likely trying to figure out Iwaizumi’s motive for asking. At length he said, “Yeah. As well as I can be.”

Iwaizumi nodded. “Good to hear.”

He turned away and had a foot on the first stair when Kindaichi said, “I trusted you.”

It should have been an accusation, but his tone wasn’t compatible. The statement was quiet, almost vulnerable.

Iwaizumi closed his eyes against the flood of guilt. “I know,” he said. He didn’t turn back. “I’m sorry.”

Kindaichi said nothing else, and Iwaizumi climbed the stairs.

As expected, the club was packed. As soon as he opened the door, the pulse of heavy, gritty music pounded in his ears. Men were clustered around the catwalks on which the strippers performed. Some of the girls were dressed in leather, some in lace, and some in nothing. 

Iwaizumi spared only a passing glance for the festivities. He’d never been a fan of the club, even when he’d been part of Seijoh, but he understood the benefits. It was a good way to make profit and a good way to distract the police from the true business through which Oikawa laundered his drug money. 

Iwaizumi stayed close to the walls to avoid the bulk of the crowd. He circled around the tables, passed the door, and started toward the private rooms before he stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly he looked over his shoulder, eyes catching on the front door.

He’d been locked underneath the club for the past two days.

When this case was over, there was no guarantee that Oikawa wouldn’t eliminate him for good.

He glanced around, looking for other Seijoh members. He spotted Kunimi in a far corner, his head lowered as he spoke with Watari. They were the only ones in sight, and they certainly weren’t paying any attention to Iwaizumi.

He could walk right out the door and go back to Kyoto. There was no one to stop him. 

He shouldn’t have come back in the first place. He’d operated under a misplaced sense of justice, thinking that banding together with Oikawa would be the fastest way to catch the murderer. Maybe that was true, but maybe he would be sacrificing his own life in the process.

This was Iwaizumi’s chance to get out of this mess for good, before it killed him.

If he did, he really would have to run. He couldn’t crawl back to Sawamura now, and even if he could, he wouldn’t. Iwaizumi knew for a fact that Oikawa would solve this case before Sawamura did. Seijoh would handle the killer before the police even knew who it was. 

Oikawa could do it, but if Iwaizumi was there, he could do it a lot faster. Despite his two years of isolation, he still knew more about the yakuza than most of the yakuza themselves. 

He could speed up the investigation. If he didn’t, Sawamura might tear down Seijoh before Oikawa had a chance to find the true killer. If Iwaizumi didn’t stay, Oikawa might end up in prison for a string of murders he wasn’t responsible for.

It wasn’t as if Oikawa didn’t deserve prison for some of the things he’d done. 

Regardless, the mere thought of it made Iwaizumi feel sick.

He turned away from the door and went to the private rooms, where Oikawa was waiting.

He’d made his bed two years ago. He had little choice but to lie in it.

The private rooms were for customers who paid extra for a little special attention from the strippers. For the safety of the women, there were cameras installed in each of the rooms except for number three. It was used for other purposes, most of them illegal.

Oikawa sat with his back against the wall, feet propped on a small table and a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers. Hanamaki was propped up in the corner, his arms folded and his mouth caught halfway in a wry smile.

“Ah, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa. “Come in. Makki, could you give us a minute?”

Hanamaki pushed away from the wall, gave Iwaizumi a sidelong look, and left the room. He shut the door in his wake, which significantly reduced the sounds of the main club. The walls were mostly soundproof.

Iwaizumi lingered by the door, and the smell of smoke pressed around him. 

It wasn’t tobacco that Oikawa was smoking.

Oikawa exhaled a breath and patted the chair beside him. “Have a seat, Iwa-chan. Let’s talk.”

Iwaizumi hesitated. “What are you smoking?”

“What do you think?” said Oikawa. “Have a taste and find out.”

His face was taunting, almost playful. Iwaizumi could have blamed that mood on whatever drug was seeping into his system, but that wouldn’t have been realistic. He’d seen Oikawa high before, and it hadn’t affected his demeanor much at all.

Iwaizumi took the blunt from between Oikawa’s fingers and took a long, slow drag. He hadn’t smoked anything in so long that his throat was immediately bone-dry. He almost coughed, but swallowed down the urge.

It was marijuana, and it didn’t taste as if it was laced with anything stronger. That was a slight relief.

“You don’t usually smoke,” said Iwaizumi, returning the blunt to Oikawa. He sat in the offered chair with his hands clasped loosely in his lap.

“You don’t know that,” said Oikawa. He took another puff and then ground it out on a glass ashtray. “Maybe I smoke all the time now. You don’t know me anymore, Iwa-chan.”

That was true, but Iwaizumi was still confident that Oikawa hadn’t become a pothead in his absence.

Oikawa sighed and the last of the smoke slid through his lips. “I’m a little stressed. I thought it might mellow me out, but it’s not working.”

Iwaizumi said nothing. He still didn’t know why he was here.

Oikawa tilted his head to the side. His eyes were a little red, but the sharpness of his gaze wasn’t foggy. “You didn’t leave.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Oikawa blinked but didn’t look away. “Just now. You could have left the club and no one would have stopped you. Why didn’t you go?”

Iwaizumi was suddenly glad he’d chosen to stay. He didn’t stop to think about his reasoning. “I want to see this through. I told you I’m with you.”

Oikawa’s stare lingered, long enough to make Iwaizumi want to turn away. But he didn’t, and finally Oikawa frowned down at his feet, elevated on the table and crossed at the ankles. 

“I shouldn’t have slapped you,” said Oikawa. “I’m sorry.”

Iwaizumi thought he must have misheard. Surely Oikawa Tooru was not offering a legitimate apology.

“I hate Ushiwaka. He really pisses me off.” Oikawa glanced to the side, eyes catching on Iwaizumi for only a moment. “But not as much as you do. You infuriate me, Iwa-chan. You make me so angry that I could literally throttle you. And still…” He trailed off, his scowl softening into thoughtfulness. 

Neither of them spoke for a while. Only small sounds from the club managed to leak in. The room was largely silent, and more than a little uncomfortable.

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” said Oikawa. “I would rather you not answer than lie.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach churned. “Okay.”

Oikawa fiddled with his hair, brushing it carefully away from his forehead. His fingers were long and lithe. Physically he was flawless; tall, lean, and undeniably attractive. He didn’t look like the sort who would be the leader of a prestigious yakuza syndicate. 

Iwaizumi knew him beneath that polished façade, though, and he couldn’t picture Oikawa doing anything else.

“While you were with Seijoh,” said Oikawa after a brief pause, “it was just an assignment for you, right? The only reason you joined up was to collect information for the police.”

Iwaizumi swallowed. His throat was still scratchy. “Yes.”

“I’m guessing something went wrong,” said Oikawa, “since none of us ended up in prison.”

That wasn’t technically a question, but Iwaizumi answered anyway. “I gave the police pieces of information here and there, but I kept the bigger things to myself. I was preparing for a final report that would include everything I discovered. I was supposed to write it up on the day I was extracted from the undercover op.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Iwaizumi stared at the floor between his feet. “I wasn’t extracted.”

“Why not?”

“Sawamura set up a meeting point. I was supposed to go there at a certain time and be placed into protective custody while the case against Seijoh was pending.”

He felt Oikawa staring, but he didn’t push. 

Iwaizumi took a deep breath that smelled like marijuana and said, “I didn’t go.”

He expected Oikawa to ask why, and he wasn’t certain what his answer would be.

Instead Oikawa said, “When?”

“June fifteenth,” he said. He remembered thinking it would be a belated birthday present, being relieved of his undercover duties. 

“You didn’t run away until September.”

“Yeah.”

“Were you still working with the police after June?”

Iwaizumi remembered the flurry of phone calls he’d received after his failure to report to the meeting point. He’d sent back a cursory text so Sawamura wouldn’t think he was dead, then dropped his phone in the toilet so he wouldn’t have to hear from him again.

“No.”

“You could have left at any time,” said Oikawa. “I trusted you enough that I didn't bother keeping track of you. Why did you stay?”

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t a helpful response, but it was the honesty that Oikawa had requested.

“Why didn’t you go back to the police and bring down Seijoh?”

Iwaizumi glanced to the side. Oikawa was watching him with laser focus, his eyes so sharp that Iwaizumi feared he would be cut open. He looked away and stared at his hands. “You know why.”

“No, I really don’t.”

Iwaizumi felt a small spark of irritation. It was better than the cocktail of guilt and shame so he clung to it. “If I’d gone back to them with my report then all of you would’ve been arrested. Seijoh would have been obliterated. Hell, not just Seijoh. I had enough to take down half of Shiratorizawa and Nekoma, too.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The irritation sparked into the first flames of anger. Iwaizumi clenched his hands into fists and said, “You would’ve been in prison for the rest of your life, Oikawa.”

“So? I’m a yakuza boss. Isn’t that where I belong?”

Iwaizumi glared at him. “Shut up, Shittykawa.” The old nickname slipped through his teeth before he could stop it. “Maybe you do deserve prison. I don’t know. But I’m not going to be the one who puts you there.”

Oikawa leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “ _Why ?_ ”

Iwaizumi found it impossible to hold his gaze. He looked back down at the floor. 

Oikawa wasn’t pleased. He gripped Iwaizumi’s chin and forced his head back around. “Why?” he repeated, his voice razor sharp. “Why didn’t you turn me in? Why did you stay?”

Iwaizumi wanted to hit him. He wanted to hit him until his frustration and confusion bled away. He didn’t; he didn’t do anything.

Oikawa’s grip tightened, painfully pressing into the sides of Iwaizumi’s face. “Fine. Don’t answer. But at least tell me this. Why did you leave? After we took down Fukurodani, after you…” he almost winced, but smoothed his expression over. “Why would you leave after all that?”

Iwaizumi pushed at Oikawa’s wrist and his hand fell limply away.

“I was afraid.” 

The confession was equally as surprising to Iwaizumi as it was to Oikawa.

“Afraid of what?”

“It was only a matter of time before you found out I was undercover,” said Iwaizumi. He wasn’t lying, but it was the lesser half of the truth.

“But you weren’t anymore. You should have just told me.”

“I know what you do to traitors, Oikawa. You would have killed me.”

“No,” said Oikawa. “Anyone else, maybe. But never you.”

They stared at each other for too long. The tension was so thick that it was suffocating.

Oikawa looked like he was on the verge of speech. His brow furrowed and his lips parted and then someone rapped loudly at the door.

“What?” Oikawa snapped, though Iwaizumi knew that whoever was outside wouldn’t be able to hear him. 

There was a pause, then the door inched open and Hanamaki popped his head in. “Ushijima is on the phone. He called the club because he said you weren’t answering your cell.”

“I was ignoring him,” said Oikawa. “He needs to learn to take a hint.”

“He said it’s urgent,” said Hanamaki. He pushed the door open a little further. A phone was in his hand, the one that was usually mounted behind the bar. “It must be if he’s calling the club.”

Oikawa sighed, and some of his agitation dispersed with the exhale. “Fine. Give it here and close the door.”

Hanamaki did as requested, again propping himself up in the corner of the room as Oikawa put the phone on speaker and placed it on the table.

“How can I be of service, Ushiwaka-chan?” His tone was as bright as always, but Iwaizumi still saw his dissatisfaction lurking in the lines of his face. 

There was a momentary pause on the other end, the sound of shuffling. Then Ushijima’s rumbling voice said, “Oikawa. There has been a situation.”

“Unless this situation requires you to move out of Tokyo,” said Oikawa, “I’m not really interested.”

Ushijima was undeterred by the snide remark. “You spoke with me of the murders in your part of the city. You said the families were killed as well.”

“And?”

There was another pause. “I believe the same thing has happened here.”

That finally got Oikawa’s attention. He sat up out of his slump, his feet falling off of the table and slapping against the floor. “What?”

“One of my men was killed a few hours ago,” said Ushijima. “It was a gunshot to the head. Four of his family members were killed in the same way. I sent you pictures from the crime scene for comparison.”

Oikawa pawed at his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped at the screen several times and froze, eyes fixed on something Iwaizumi couldn’t see. Wordlessly he handed it over and Iwaizumi was met with grisly photographs that were a near replica of the ones that Sawamura had shown him.

“How’d you get these pictures?” said Oikawa.

“I have connections with some of the officers here,” said Ushijima. “Is it the same as your murders?”

Oikawa looked to Iwaizumi. 

“The method is the same,” said Iwaizumi. He enlarged one of the pictures, focusing on the back of a man’s blown-out skull. He judged the size of the exit wound. “It looks like the same kind of gun was used, too. The wound is too big to have been from anything smaller than a .45.”

Silence swelled among them. Iwaizumi handed the phone back and Oikawa put it in his pocket, probably so he didn’t have to look at the pictures anymore. Hanamaki watched the exchange impassively, his eyebrows tucked together in thought.

“None of my men are responsible for this,” said Ushijima. “Of that I am certain. It is possible that the gun was acquired elsewhere, but it is not very likely. Very few firearms are imported into the city by anyone other than Shiratorizawa.” He wasn’t saying it to brag. He was saying it because it was the truth. “I have only sold two guns of this kind in the past six months. I will tell you who the buyers were if you will assure me that you will handle this problem.”

Oikawa was getting the information that he’d requested two days ago, but he didn’t look pleased about it. He looked solemn. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Both firearms were purchased at the same time,” said Ushijima. He paused once more, as if steeling himself to give up the information. “One by Kuroo of Nekoma, the other by Bokuto of Fukurodani.”

  
  
  
  
  
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**TWO YEARS AGO**

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When Iwaizumi first met Bokuto Koutarou, he wasn’t certain why the man was even involved with the yakuza.

Then again, it wasn’t always the first impression that mattered.

Seijoh worked fairly closely with the Nekoma syndicate. Oikawa and Kuroo had a good working relationship built on similar interests and mutual ambition. Kuroo had been appointed the head of Nekoma at the surprisingly young age of twenty-one. He’d taken over for someone much older, and when Iwaizumi was told about the situation, he didn’t understand why anyone would allow someone barely out of their youth to lead a faction of the yakuza.

Then he met Kuroo, and it made sense.

On the surface, Kuroo appeared to be calm and easygoing. He was free with his smiles, quick to laugh, and outwardly amicable. 

But Iwaizumi had been in the business of crime – a participant on both sides – long enough to know a criminal when he saw one. It was the spark in Kuroo’s eyes that gave him away. They were a little too sharp and much too calculating. His intelligence and shrewdness was clear the instant Iwaizumi made eye contact. 

Bokuto Koutarou, however, had been a different story.

He was Kuroo’s second-in-command, which Iwaizumi had never quite understood. Bokuto was loud and obtrusive and didn’t seem to be very bright. When they’d been introduced, Bokuto had greeted Iwaizumi like an old friend. He’d slung a bulky arm across Iwaizumi’s shoulders and grinned. “Welcome to the club! Sucks you’re with Seijoh instead of us, but whatever. They’re alright too, I guess.”

His second impression of Bokuto had certainly changed his opinion of the man, but hadn’t made Kuroo’s partiality toward him any clearer.

On a chilly night in mid-January, Oikawa had taken Iwaizumi along with him to Nekoma’s base of operations. Unlike Seijoh, which mainly operated out of the club, Kuroo used the front of a high-class law office under which to conduct the bulk of his business. He was licensed to practice law, which both made the cover more believable and gave him a greater ability to conduct Nekoma’s business.

Unlike the other syndicates, who dealt in physical goods, Nekoma dealt with less tangible wares.

Nekoma’s specialty was information.

For the right price, Kuroo could find out anything that anyone wanted to know. Even if he didn’t have the connections to acquire the information, he had a master hacker on hand who could do the job. The only tangible goods that Nekoma sold were identities. Those who were fleeing the city, or seeking refuge in it, flocked to Kuroo for new names, identification, and papers. He was a master of the trade, and though the police knew there was something suspicious about his office, they’d never been able to pin down any illegal behavior.

Kuroo was smart, so smart that it was frightening.

Bokuto, on the other hand, was not.

They’d arrived at the office for their meeting, but it seemed that something of importance had demanded Kuroo’s attention. He was otherwise occupied downstairs, but one of his men – Taketora, Iwaizumi later discovered – led Oikawa and Iwaizumi down to the lower levels.

They were welcomed by the sight of Bokuto throwing someone into the concrete wall, the man’s skull bouncing on impact.

Kuroo stood just inside the doorway, watching the display with polite interest.

“Sorry for the delay,” said Kuroo when Oikawa stepped up beside him. “We’ve had an information leak that we need to take care of. It’ll only be a minute.”

Oikawa shrugged. “No rush.”

Bokuto seized the front of the man’s shirt and pinned him against the wall. The man’s toes dangled off of the ground. Bokuto’s muscles bulged beneath the tight sleeves of his shirt, but he held the man’s weight easily. 

“Who did you tell?” Bokuto shouted the question into the man’s face, his grip tightening and his eyes flashing. “Who the _fuck_ did you tell?”

The man struggled weakly. He scrabbled at Bokuto’s wrists, his feet flailing. “No one,” he choked out. “I didn’t-”

Bokuto adjusted his grip, pulled an arm back, and slammed his fist into the man’s jaw. His head snapped to the side and he spat blood into the floor. 

“Don’t lie to me!” said Bokuto, still yelling. He was almost quivering, and Iwaizumi didn’t know if it was from anger or excitement. “You told someone about the Ikumi job. Kuroo guaranteed she would be safe and now she’s in jail. You made Kuroo a _liar_.”

The man was clearly about to protest again. Bokuto spared him the trouble by hitting him so hard that he may have lost consciousness for a flickering second. His limbs went limp, fingers dangling. Then he twitched and again started to futilely struggle.

“Please,” the man said. He wasn’t talking to Bokuto. He was staring over a broad shoulder, hazy eyes beseeching Kuroo. “I didn’t do it on purpose. He talked like he already knew about it. I didn’t know he was a cop, I didn’t know-” 

Bokuto shoved him against the wall again. His head bounced against the concrete and he stopped talking.

“Which cop?” said Bokuto. His voice was still loud but now it scraped deeper, almost a snarl. 

“I-I don’t know,” the man said. He fumbled his words, and Iwaizumi suspected he’d sustained a concussion. “He was- he was tall. And… and had blond hair, and gl-glasses. After I told him – I didn’t m-mean to tell him, I didn’t know – he asked about… about Kuroo-san, but I didn’t… I didn’t say anything abou-”

Bokuto hit him again. Blood sprayed from his nose and painted the wall. 

Bokuto looked over his shoulder at Kuroo, waiting.

Kuroo considered the information for a moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Tsukishima,” he said. His tone was light, conversational. “I’m not surprised. I told him if he wanted to know something to ask me directly, not to hassle my men. The kid just doesn’t listen.” He sighed. “Alright. Go ahead and kill him, Bo.”

The order was delivered so casually that Iwaizumi winced.

Bokuto just looked at him, his eyes wide and suddenly void of the anger of a moment before. “Dude, no.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, unperturbed by the refusal. “Come on, Bo. Seijoh is here. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of Oikawa.”

Bokuto looked between them. His took a step back and the man crumpled to the ground. Bokuto rubbed at his face, and his bloody knuckles left a crimson smear along his jaw. He frowned down at the floor. “I can’t. You know I don’t kill people, Kuroo.”

The sudden change in his demeanor was disorienting. Iwaizumi looked to Kuroo, expecting to see anger, or at least irritation, but Kuroo only looked resigned.

“I know,” said Kuroo with a sigh. He moved forward, and for a fleeting second Iwaizumi thought he was going to lash out at Bokuto. But he only dropped a hand on his shoulder and turned him away from the bleeding man, who stared up at Kuroo with a foggy sense of dread. “I thought maybe you could do it with an audience.”

Bokuto mumbled something that Iwaizumi couldn’t hear, but it made Kuroo grin.

Kuroo tucked a hand inside his jacket, pulled out a pistol, and buried a bullet in the bleeding man’s forehead.

It was so sudden that Iwaizumi didn’t have a chance to look away. There was a small spurt of blood, a bright red drizzle that trickled between the man’s eyes and along the bridge of his nose, and then he collapsed. 

The sound of the gunshot rang in Iwaizumi’s ears, almost as loudly as his static shock.

He tore his eyes and away and to the side, only to find that Oikawa was already watching him.

“Kuroo prefers to end things quickly and efficiently,” said Oikawa. He shrugged. “I personally like the Kyoutani method better.”

Kuroo had his hand on Bokuto’s shoulder again, murmuring something into his ear. Bokuto nodded, eyes still downcast.

If this had been Oikawa’s situation to handle, the dead man on the floor would have screamed for at least another hour before he was allowed to die. 

Also if this had been Oikawa’s problem, he doubted Bokuto would have been treated so gently after failing to complete an order.

“Bo-chan doesn’t like killing,” said Oikawa, as if sensing the direction of Iwaizumi’s thoughts. He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “It makes him uncomfortable. I don’t know how he ended up in Nekoma, but he definitely wouldn’t make it in Seijoh.”

Iwaizumi didn’t know if that was a simple statement or if there was more weight behind it. It may have been a warning. Iwaizumi had never been asked to kill anyone, and he hoped that he would never receive that order. Despite the questionable things he’d allowed himself to do under the excuse of justice, he knew that he couldn’t cross that line.

If Oikawa told him to kill someone and he refused, he wondered if he would be the next one to end up under Kyoutani’s knife.

“Sorry about that,” said Kuroo, rejoining them. Bokuto was a step behind, staring impassively at his busted knuckles. “You guys head on upstairs. I’ll give Yaku a call to get this mess cleaned up and then I’ll be ready for our meeting. Ten minutes, tops.”

Oikawa headed for the stairs and Iwaizumi followed. The sound of the gunshot was still in his ears and the bloody sight of the dead man was stamped across the fore of his mind. 

He didn’t think he’d ever be able to wipe it away.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

After Ushijima’s phone call, Oikawa and Iwaizumi descended back into the lower levels of the club. With the pounding music only a distant memory, Iwaizumi found it easier to think about the new information. With his mind clear, he’d realized that Ushijima had categorized Bokuto as a member of Fukurodani instead of Nekoma. He assumed he must have misspoken.

He hadn’t.

“I wish I was, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa. He keyed in the code to unlock his office and led Iwaizumi inside. “When the leaders of Fukurodani were eliminated” – he gave Iwaizumi a pointed look – “Kuroo took the opportunity to restructure the entire syndicate. I was out of commission, so I couldn’t do anything about it. I figured he would absorb the Fukurodani members and expand Nekoma, but he decided to just give them a new leader instead. I don’t know how he did it without some sort of rebellion from the old members, but he found a way. Bokuto has been in charge of Fukurodani for the past two years.”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

Oikawa smiled a little. He secured the door and padded past Iwaizumi to sit behind his desk. Iwaizumi followed Oikawa closely with his eyes, focusing on his slow gait, the way he slightly favored his right leg.

He wanted to ask about it, but the inquiry would probably be met with a measure of resentment. 

Besides, he didn’t really need to ask. Iwaizumi knew what had happened. 

“He’s done alright, considering,” said Oikawa. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms as Iwaizumi took a seat across from him. “Bokuto didn’t just abolish Fukurodani’s sex trafficking, but their prostitution, as well. Fukurodani deals solely in gambling now. They have rings set up all around the city. There are a couple of them here in Seijoh, too. I get a cut of the profit for allowing them in my territory.”

“Sounds like something Kuroo would do.”

“I’m sure Kuroo told him to do it. Bokuto is the leader, but in name only. I think Kuroo is still calling the shots. He’s running two syndicates for the price of one. Bokuto is just his puppet.”

“So what about the murders?” said Iwaizumi. “Do you think they’re in it together?”

Oikawa sighed. He shifted forward and shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders, draping it over the back of his chair. The straps of his holster were dark against his bone-white button-up. He rested his elbows on the desk and started pulling at the ivory buttons on his sleeves. “I don’t know what to think. Kuroo has been a little more distant with me over the past couple of years. We’ve had our differences. Still, I can’t imagine him doing this. I definitely can’t imagine Bokuto doing it, since he still refuses to kill anyone, even as a yakuza leader.”

An aversion to killing was not a good quality in Bokuto’s line of work. If Kuroo hadn’t managed to get him the role of leadership, he never would have made it himself. Iwaizumi knew through years of exposure to the yakuza that, while not ideal, killing was sometimes necessary. He’d known even before his undercover mission that Oikawa Tooru, in particular, had killed his way to the top of the food chain. Iwaizumi didn’t know exactly how much blood was on Oikawa’s hands, but he was certain that they were darkly stained.

“Even with Kuroo,” said Iwaizumi, “how does Bokuto keep control? Kuroo can’t hold his hand all the time. What if he needs to make a decision and doesn’t have time to wait for instructions?”

“Luckily for Bokuto, he has an extremely competent advisor who rarely leaves his side.” Oikawa folded the cuffs of his sleeves and slowly rolled them up to settle just below the bend of his elbow. His tattoos started about midway up his forearms. Iwaizumi forced himself not to look. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen them before. 

“From Fukurodani or Nekoma?”

“Well he’s Fukurodani now,” said Oikawa. He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “Akaashi Keiji. Did you ever meet him?”

The name sounded vaguely familiar. Iwaizumi had a fuzzy memory of dark hair and steady eyes. “Maybe.”

“He’s the one that keeps Bokuto in line when Kuroo isn’t around,” said Oikawa. “Honestly, he’s the one who Kuroo should’ve put in charge.”

“What about Kozume? Is he still on Kuroo’s side?”

Oikawa snorted. “Of course. You don’t think Kuroo will ever let his most valuable asset out of sight, do you?”

“No, but I never thought he’d send Bokuto off to lead a syndicate, either.”

Oikawa conceded that point with a tilt of his head. 

The conversation lapsed into silence, but it wasn’t strained or uncomfortable. Oikawa stared pensively at the wall, and Iwaizumi quietly watched him.

The conversation that Hanamaki had interrupted was still on his mind. It had been a more personal conversation than Iwaizumi had expected. He didn’t know if Oikawa actually cared why he’d left or if he was just trying to fill in the blanks as a matter of thoroughness.

At Oikawa’s request, Iwaizumi hadn’t lied. He’d left Seijoh because he was afraid. Partly because he didn’t want to witness Oikawa’s discovery of his status as an undercover officer, but that was only a small portion of it.

There were other reasons, darker ones, things that he would rather not think about.

By the time Iwaizumi realized Oikawa was looking at him, it was too late to disguise his own staring. 

“Something to say, Iwa-chan?” said Oikawa, his mouth curving into a teasing smile.

Iwaizumi glanced away. “No. I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“The murders,” lied Iwaizumi. “What are you going to do now?”

Oikawa tapped his fingers against the desk. The motion made the lean muscles of his forearm flex, pulling at the colors inked into his skin. “In the past I would have called Kuroo up and asked him if he’d murdered any families lately, but we’re not that close anymore.” He sighed and his fingers stopped drumming. “I need to get him and Bokuto into a situation where I can bring it up casually. Kuroo has a flawless poker face, but Bokuto is too expressive. If he had anything to do with it then it would be written all over his face.”

“So you have a plan?”

“A very tentative one. I’ll take the night to think it over and have a talk with everyone else in the morning.”

Iwaizumi nodded and stood. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Will you let me back in my room?”

“Let yourself in,” said Oikawa. “The code is one-zero-zero-six.”

Iwaizumi was too shocked to immediately respond. He wasn’t sure if the code itself was more surprising or the fact that Oikawa had willingly given it to him.

Oikawa interpreted his hesitation as the latter.

“Come and go as you please,” said Oikawa. He sat back with a shrug. “If you’d wanted to leave then you would have left. Just keep your phone on you at all times in case I need you.”

“Oh. Sure, I’ll… The code is my birthday?”

Oikawa smiled. It wasn’t the sharp, dangerous one that he reserved for business. It was small, and a little soft. “Well, it is your room.”

Iwaizumi couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that, so he left without saying anything at all. 

  
  
  
  
  
Oikawa devised a plan to get close enough to the bosses of Fukurodani and Nekoma to ask them about the murders. It wasn’t very complicated and required minimum planning, but it was a plan all the same.

On Friday night they closed the club to the public. The girls still showed up for their shift and were promised that they would be reimbursed for any lost wages as a result of the low attendance. Their only audience for the night would be Kuroo, Bokuto, and whichever respective yakuza members that they chose to bring with them.

Iwaizumi intended to stay out of the entire affair. He assumed the other syndicates knew that he’d been undercover, and he didn’t want to present himself as a target. They wouldn’t harm him there, not while he was under Oikawa’s protection, but that didn’t mean he wanted to show up on their radar.

It appeared that his plan to keep to himself wasn’t going to work.

At nine-thirty someone rapped at his door. He’d just decided to pretend he wasn’t there when his visitor tapped in the code and let himself in.

It was Yahaba, and he looked like he needed a good night’s sleep.

“Boss wants you,” he said flatly. He rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed. “Although if I were you I’d probably hang myself with the bedsheets instead of walking into the middle of that mess.”

“That bad, huh?” said Iwaizumi.

“Apparently Oikawa’s promise of an open bar made them think they could bring half of their entire damn syndicates. The good news is that Nekoma and Fukurodani get along really well. The bad news is that we have to deal with them until they get bored and go home.”

Despite the inconvenience, this was exactly what Oikawa had wanted. His intention was to create a relaxed atmosphere under the guise of rekindling the old kinship between Nekoma and Seijoh, while simultaneously accepting Fukurodani into the fold. The alcohol would take a small chunk out of Seijoh’s bank account, but if it helped persuade someone to drop a hint about the murders, then it would be worth the loss.

“Why’s he want me?” said Iwaizumi, though he was already getting up to change into a nicer shirt. “I’m not good at entertaining.”

“No, but you’re good at observing,” said Yahaba.

Iwaizumi was a little surprised by that. It was as close to a compliment as Yahaba would ever get.

Yahaba sniffed again and said, “Anyway, get up there quick. If Oikawa asks, tell him I got an important phone call from one of my guys. That’ll buy me at least twenty minutes to breathe.”

Yahaba had a cluster of Seijoh members who reported directly to him, as did the rest of Oikawa’s elites. Yahaba was perhaps responsible for a greater number of them because Oikawa tended to give him quite a bit of responsibility.

Oikawa had told Iwaizumi once that he was discreetly grooming Yahaba for leadership, in case something happened to him. Iwaizumi was the only person he’d told. The information couldn’t get out, because Oikawa was afraid Yahaba would kill him preemptively to take his power.

Iwaizumi thought Oikawa was only being paranoid because that was the way he’d become the boss.

“Sure,” said Iwaizumi. “Take at least half an hour, though. You look like you need it.”

Yahaba gave him a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Iwaizumi only noticed when he moved a step closer that those eyes were noticeably bloodshot. 

Yahaba sniffed again, and Iwaizumi suspected that he knew how Yahaba was going to spend his break. 

Iwaizumi thought about saying something, but decided against it. It wasn’t his business, after all. If Yahaba wanted to dip into his own supply then he was at liberty to do so.

Then Iwaizumi realized he was trying to justify illegal behaviors and stopped thinking about it altogether.

“I’ll head upstairs,” said Iwaizumi. “Take your time. I’ll try to cover for you.”

Yahaba gave him a nod of thanks and then they went their separate ways. Iwaizumi trudged up the stairs, took a breath to brace himself, and then emerged onto the main floor of the club.

The scene wasn’t much different from a typical night. The girls were still on the catwalks, though there were fewer of them than usual. The size of the audience was somewhat diminished, but those present were just as exuberant as their normal patrons. They sat crowded around the stages, free drinks in hand.

Oikawa wasn’t among them, and Iwaizumi wasn’t surprised. Despite owning a strip club, Oikawa had always been disinterested in the entertainment itself.

Iwaizumi found him exactly where he’d expected. Oikawa sat at the rearmost table. It was in view of the rest of the club, yet isolated due to the smaller crowd. Over the pulse of the music – which had been, thankfully, lowered for the occasion – no one would be able to overhear his conversation unless they were a few footsteps away. 

Oikawa sat with his back to the wall. Four other men sat with him at the large round table, and Iwaizumi recognized two of them immediately, even from a quick glance at the backs of their heads. Kuroo and Bokuto were distinct, and neither had changed much in the past two years; at least not in appearance.

It took a moment longer to place the other two. One he belatedly recognized as Kozume Kenma, the delay due to the bleached hair that had once been dark. The other he didn’t recognize at all, but from context he assumed it was Akaashi Keiji.

Oikawa’s eyes flickered to him and he raised a hand to beckon him over. Iwaizumi went obediently, dropping into the empty chair at Oikawa’s side. He wondered if that was where Yahaba had been sitting or if Oikawa had reserved it specifically for him.

“You’re late to the party, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa. His voice was teasing, his smile easy. He seemed to be perfectly at ease. 

But it was a mask, and Iwaizumi knew it.

“I didn’t know I was invited.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes. “Of course you are. Does everyone remember Iwa-chan? Iwa-chan, everyone?”

Iwaizumi glanced around the table. Kozume and Akaashi looked back at him passively. Kuroo had that speculative look in his eyes that had always put Iwaizumi on edge, but Bokuto was beaming.

“Hey, hey, hey!” said Bokuto. He leaned over the table a little, as if his voice wasn’t already loud enough to carry halfway across the club. “I remember you! It was Wata… something, right?”

“Iwaizumi.”

Bokuto’s expressive eyebrows pulled into a frown. “Oh. I swear I thought-”

“Watanabe was his fake name,” said Akaashi. He took a sip of his drink, watching Iwaizumi over the rim. “He used it while he was undercover.”

Iwaizumi bristled, though there was no reason to. It was the truth.

“Oh,” said Bokuto, eyes widening. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”

Kuroo flashed his signature feline grin. “Never thought I’d see you back here, Iwaizumi. What’re you doing in Tokyo? Collecting more information for the police?”

“Don’t worry about Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa, intervening before Iwaizumi had to respond. He pressed his half-full glass into Iwaizumi’s hand. “He’s just back for a visit. He owes me a favor. I’ve got my eye on him, so nothing to worry about.”

Iwaizumi glared at him, but he was unaffected. Oikawa leaned back in his seat and waved across the room, where Kunimi stood boredly behind the bar. Oikawa made a wide gesture to encompass the table and Kunimi gave a curt nod. 

Oikawa must have given his regular employees the night off, considering the circumstances. He wouldn’t have let Kunimi tend the bar otherwise. The man could mix a drink, but his social skills were atrocious. Iwaizumi suspected that was by choice.

“So, Ken-chan,” said Oikawa, steering the conversation away from Iwaizumi. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you outside of Nekoma. Don’t get out much?”

Kozume looked back down at his phone, which was the size of a small tablet. “Only when Kuro makes me.”

Kuroo’s grin suggested that was true. 

The idle chatter between them was comfortable. Despite whatever rift had erupted between Seijoh and Nekoma, it seemed that it hadn’t affected their bosses on a personal level. Kuroo was quick with his quips and constant with his grins. Oikawa laughed freely, and Iwaizumi could tell it wasn’t even forced. Illuminating all of them was Bokuto, who was a cheerful ray of sunshine.

Iwaizumi still wasn’t sure what Kuroo had been thinking, appointing Bokuto to lead a syndicate of the yakuza.

He sipped the drink Oikawa had given him, although it was much too sweet for his taste. 

He didn’t have to worry over that for long. A short time later Kunimi approached with a tray full of drinks for their table. He passed them around without a word and then disappeared back behind the bar just as a pair of Fukurodani members broke away from the small crowd for refills.

Iwaizumi studied the drink Kunimi had given him. Then he took a careful sip.

It was a neat whiskey, the drink that Iwaizumi had always preferred, and he wasn’t sure how Kunimi had remembered.

“That still your drink of choice, Iwa-chan?” asked Oikawa quietly. 

He realized Kunimi hadn’t remembered. Oikawa had told him in advance. That made more sense, though he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Oikawa holding onto that information for two years.

Bokuto had launched into a loud retelling of a story involving himself and Akaashi and a game of cards gone wrong, so no one was paying attention to the pair of them. “Yeah,” said Iwaizumi, matching Oikawa’s low tone. “It is.”

Oikawa smiled and tipped back his own drink. When he put the glass on the table he licked a stray drop from his upper lip. Iwaizumi tore his gaze away and instead looked at Bokuto, who was only midway through his animated retelling.

Oikawa leaned closer and murmured, “Don’t drink too much, Iwa-chan. We both know you can’t hold your liquor.”

Iwaizumi made a grunting sound of assent and said nothing else.

That wasn’t true, and Oikawa knew it. It was a gentle reminder that they needed to remain more sober than their company. Iwaizumi didn’t need to be told. Even if the purpose of the evening hadn’t been to acquire information, he wouldn’t trust himself to become even slightly inebriated in the current company. He didn’t trust a single one of them.

The evening went smoothly. Oikawa and the other bosses talked, the rest of them mostly listened, and each new drink made them a little more cheerful.

Iwaizumi wasn’t dumb enough to hope that Kuroo would let something important slip, no matter his level of inebriation. 

Kuroo wasn’t the target. 

“’Kaashi!” said Bokuto, leaning in with another fresh drink in hand. “Look at that girl! She’s so _flexible_!”

Bokuto turned halfway around in his seat to watch one of the strippers wrap her legs around a pole and sink into a flawless backbend.

“Yes, Bokuto-san,” said Akaashi blandly. He hadn’t bothered looking. He still stared into his drink, only his second one of the night.

Iwaizumi understood why Akaashi Keiji had been appointed as Bokuto’s advisor. Even if Bokuto wasn’t always well-equipped to lead Fukurodani, Akaashi would be more than capable of succeeding where Bokuto lacked.

Fortunately for them, not even Akaashi seemed to be able to control Bokuto’s drinking. He twisted back around and tossed back another shot. Akaashi had whispered to Bokuto several times, and though Iwaizumi hadn’t heard, he was fairly certain it was a quiet warning that Bokuto was drinking too much.

Clearly Bokuto wasn’t concerned.

“Hey, hey, Oikawa!” he said, after slapping the empty glass against the table. “You should come over to our place sometime! We don’t have strippers, but we… hey, ‘Kaashi! We should get strippers!”

“No, Bokuto-san.”

“But Akaaaashi!”

Kuroo watched the pair of them with smug amusement. He tipped back his drink – it was his sixth, and still he seemed unaffected – and settled back into his chair to mutter something to Kozume, who’d spent the entirety of the evening staring at his phone.

“Thanks for the offer, Bo-chan,” said Oikawa with a grin. “I haven’t been to the Fukurodani bar since you took over. I’ll try to check it out soon. Well, as soon as I can, once I finish dealing with all the murders. I’m lucky I could spare tonight to catch up with all of you.”

Iwaizumi felt the slight shift in the atmosphere. Oikawa had dropped the topic casually, but everyone at the table had latched onto it with sharpened interest. Even Kozume looked up, his golden eyes intent.

“Murders?” repeated Kuroo with a raised brow. 

Oikawa blinked at him, as if just realizing what he’d said. “Oh, didn’t you know? Someone had the audacity to come onto my territory and kill my men and their families. It was a bloodbath. I’ve been trying to sort it out.”

Bokuto’s eyes were wide, but Kuroo looked intrigued. “You don’t say.”

“It’s a real hassle,” said Oikawa. He shrugged, as if the inconvenience was a more of a concern than the murders themselves. “Luckily Iwa-chan is here, so I don’t have to deal with the police knocking at my door.”

Nothing about that was true, but Iwaizumi nodded once, to lend believability. 

Kuroo tilted his head, thinking. “Who did it?” 

Oikawa sighed. It was a little too dramatic, but then again, Oikawa was often a little too dramatic. “Well I can’t say for sure, but…” He glanced around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Then he leaned his elbows onto the table and lowered his voice. “Iwa-chan says they used a .45 for the killing. I only know of one syndicate who uses those, so…”

He trailed off, letting them reach the conclusion for themselves.

Iwaizumi switched his gaze back and forth between Bokuto and Kuroo, looking for anything suspicious.

Kuroo’s face didn’t change. “You think Ushijima would do that?” he said. He reached for his drink. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

He’d just pressed the glass to his lips when Bokuto slapped him excitedly on the back and he almost choked.

“Hey, me and Kuroo got .45s from Ushijima a while back!” said Bokuto brightly. Clearly the gravity of the murders wasn’t affecting him. 

Kuroo gave him an unreadable look, but said nothing.

“Oh?” said Oikawa. “I can’t imagine using one of those. They seem a little difficult to handle.”

It was clearly bait. Iwaizumi knew it, and from the looks that Akaashi and Kozume gave him, they knew it, too.

Bokuto, however, jumped right in.

“No, it’s not bad at all!” he said. “It has a good kick to it, but not that much worse than the tens. Me and Kuroo went to the range just a couple of weeks ago and shot them, right, Kuroo?”

Kuroo’s eyes were on Oikawa, slightly narrowed. “Right.”

“I’m a better shot than Kuroo,” said Bokuto proudly. 

Bokuto reached for another drink, and Akaashi easily plucked it out of his hand. He set it aside without a word, and Bokuto was too distracted by the conversation to argue.

“Ushijima gave us a good deal on them,” he continued, “since we both bought one. I know you don’t like him, but he’s pretty cool. It’s one of my new favorite guns.”

“You rarely even carry it, Bokuto-san,” said Akaashi.

“Well yeah, why would I? It’s not like I’m ever going to use it for anything important. I just wanted it because it’s cool.”

“Kuro doesn’t carry his, either,” said Kozume, not looking at any of them. “He says it’s too heavy and throws him off balance.”

“I did not say that.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

“…did too.”

Iwaizumi watched the exchange with focused speculation. He was looking for a sliver of dishonesty or discomfort; anything that would help determine if one of them was involved.

As always, Kuroo was at ease. His argument with Kozume was playful, as was apparent by the twitch of his lips. Bokuto appeared completely unbothered by the entire conversation. He reached across Akaashi to grab at the drink that had been taken away from him a moment before.

Neither of them acted as if they’d been involved with the killings. Neither of them seemed suspicious.

Either Iwaizumi was misreading them, or Kuroo and Bokuto were innocent – of this, at least.

Frustrated, he looked past them and stared toward the stage instead. One of Kuroo’s men – Taketora, he distantly recalled – was half-laying on the stage, stretching a handful of money toward the current performer. She was tall and slim, her dark hair fell midway down her back, and she was dressed in black lace.

She took the money with a measure of disinterest and walked toward the back of the stage, her performance finished. Just before she stepped through the curtain, she looked over her shoulder and Iwaizumi got a good look at her face.

She was beautiful. That was likely the reason that she hadn’t bothered stripping all the way into nudity. She would have been a favorite of the club’s guests even without having to bare herself completely.

Despite her beauty, she was modest and shy and kind.

Iwaizumi knew this, because he knew her.

The dancer was Shimizu Kiyoko, an officer of the Tokyo Police. 

  
  
  
  
****

*********

****

**TWO YEARS AGO**

****

*********

 

 

There was no moon. It was as dark as it could be in a large city like Tokyo, which wasn’t all that dark. Some cities never slept, and the bustle of Tokyo was no exception.

Iwaizumi stepped out of an alley of gray shadows and crept along the back side of a two-story building. His hood was pulled around his face, shoulders slightly hunched as he tried to keep to the shadows. He glanced to the side and then over his shoulder, looking for followers and finding none.

He sidled up to a plain gray door and slid a card through a scanner. It beeped, the door unlocked, and he let himself inside. 

The hallway was vacant, but he heard voices from further inside. He followed them, steps quiet as he traveled through the familiar corridor. He peered through the doorway at the end and found three police officers. Two of them were tapping away at computers. One had pillowed his head on his arms and was dead asleep.

Iwaizumi considered yanking the chair from beneath him and letting him hit the floor. It was what he deserved for sleeping on the job. Tanaka had been an officer long enough to know better.

He didn’t get the chance. One of the other officers lurched out of his chair, turning on Iwaizumi so quickly that it was almost startling.

“The hell do you think you’re doing? Hands where I can see them, _now_!”

The voice was booming, and it would have been intimidating if Iwaizumi hadn’t known him so well.

“Calm down.” The voice was quiet, unflustered. Shimizu barely looked away from her computer screen. “It’s just Iwaizumi.”

Sawamura glanced at her before narrowing his eyes at Iwaizumi. A few seconds passed, then the stiff set of his shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Hey, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi reached up to push back his hood. He probably should have done that before sneaking into a room full of officers. “Hey, Sawamura. Hi, Shimizu.” He would have extended the greeting to Tanaka, too, but he was still asleep on the table. Even Sawamura’s shout hadn’t stirred him.

Sawamura sank back into his chair with a sigh. Then he was immediately on his feet again, tension reemerging. “You shouldn’t be here! What if someone saw you come in?”

“They didn’t see me,” said Iwaizumi. He stepped further into the room and sat in a spare chair. It rolled under his weight, bouncing lightly against the wall. “I was careful.”

“You know what’ll happen if they find out you’re an officer.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I was careful.”

“Iwaizumi-”

“I think it’s fine,” said Shimizu. Still her voice was quiet, but it cut Sawamura off as effectively as if she’d shouted. “Iwaizumi knows what he’s doing. He’s been undercover for a long time now.”

Sawamura sighed and deflated back into his chair. He was the sergeant of the shift, but he still had a tendency to give in to anything Shimizu said. 

Iwaizumi thought it was only a matter of time until Shimizu got promoted. She had all the qualities of an excellent officer: awareness, quiet strength, and a sense of composure that had never wavered. 

“What are you doing here?” asked Sawamura, more calmly.

Iwaizumi shrugged. “I just wanted to check in personally instead of over the phone. I needed to see a friendly face that’s not yakuza.” He raised a brow at Sawamura’s scowl. “Guess I came to the wrong place.”

“Sorry I’m worried, but I’d really rather not see you dead.”

“I’m fine,” said Iwaizumi. “It’s five in the morning. No one was around to see me leave, and no one will be around when I go back. They don’t have a lookout all the time. Their security system makes it unnecessary.”

“How did you get past the security system?”

“I know the code,” said Iwaizumi. “I know all the codes. I told you I’m in the inner circle now. I have my own room at the hideout and everything. Oikawa likes me, I think.”

Sawamura’s scowl leveled into a frown. “Just watch out for yourself, Iwaizumi. Oikawa isn’t someone to make an enemy of.”

Iwaizumi’s thoughts flashed back a couple of months before, to the screams that Kyoutani had pulled out of the traitor’s throat.

“Don’t worry,” said Iwaizumi. “I know.”

Shimizu looked up again, her gaze steady. “Are you alright, Iwaizumi?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

The way she asked, with such direct concern, made Iwaizumi question himself. He thought for a moment and then reaffirmed, “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

Shimizu’s frown was small and soft. “You just seem a little different. Watch yourself, Iwaizumi-san.”

The warning gave him pause. It wasn’t the same as Sawamura’s repetitive warnings. It made him take a mental step back and do a quick inventory of himself. 

Was he different? He didn’t think so. His hair was getting a little too long and he needed to shave, but other than that he felt he was the same.

He knew Shimizu wasn’t referring to physical differences, but thinking of that was easier than thinking of what she might mean.

He’d seen things while undercover that he never would have seen if he’d stuck with normal police work. If he’d chosen the path of patrol rather than investigations then maybe he would still be the same.

He wondered if he’d made a mistake.

Either way, it was too late to turn back now.

The crackle of a radio startled Iwaizumi out of his thoughts.

“105, dispatch.”

Tanaka sat up straight in his seat, suddenly wide awake as he reached for his radio. “105.”

“There’s a report of a ten-twenty-six on Block 47. The caller advises…”

Tanaka whipped out a pen and started taking notes on the palm of his hand. When the dispatcher finished speaking he pressed his radio and said, “Ten-four, on my way.”

He rose from his chair, took a step, and his eyes snagged on Iwaizumi.

“Oh, hey,” said Tanaka. “When did you get here?”

“Right about the time you were dreaming about Shimizu, probably.”

Tanaka’s eyes flew wide. He looked back and forth between Iwaizumi and Shimizu, who hadn’t bothered to look away from her report. “Dude! I wasn’t even dreaming about anything. I don’t dream. Especially not about Shimizu-san. It would be disrespectful to have her in my dreams without her permission.”

“Go take care of that twenty-six,” said Shimizu.

“Oh, right! See you.” Tanaka tossed a quick salute toward Iwaizumi and strode out of the room. A moment later the exterior door slammed in his wake.

“You shouldn’t tease him,” said Shimizu. “He’s gotten much better over the past few months.”

When Shimizu had first been assigned to Sawamura’s shift, Tanaka had walked into every present object because he couldn’t stop looking at her long enough to function. Iwaizumi could tell even from that brief interaction that Tanaka had improved.

“He deserves to be teased,” said Sawamura. “Relentlessly. Thanks, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi grinned. “Anytime, sarge.”

“So,” said Sawamura, crossing an ankle over the opposite knee. His duty belt squeaked against his chair as he moved. “How’s it going at Seijoh? Everything alright?”

“As alright as it can be,” said Iwaizumi with a shrug. “They’ve been taking me on errands. It’s not too bad.”

“Errands?” repeated Sawamura. “Drug-related errands?”

“Kind of.”

Sawamura shifted forward a little. “Have they tried to make you use anything? You know you don’t have to do that. If they push too hard we can pull you out of the investigation early.”

Iwaizumi thought about Oikawa arranging lines on a glass plate, about the way the cocaine had burned his nose.

He thought about how he’d felt afterward, like he was capable of absolutely anything, as long as he accomplished it before his racing heart exploded.

“No,” he said. “They haven’t made me use anything.”

Shimizu spared him a quick glance, but said nothing.

“Good,” said Sawamura with a nod. “Just keep me updated. If anything at all goes wrong we’ll get you out, alright? Don’t take any chances. You’re playing a dangerous game here.”

Iwaizumi knew. He knew better than anyone. 

It was downright deadly, but no matter what happened, he wasn’t going to request an early rescue. He’d signed up for this, and he was going to see it through.

Besides, despite the torture and the drugs and the past murders, Seijoh - and Oikawa in particular - wasn’t all that bad.


	9. Chapter 9

Iwaizumi slipped behind the stage unnoticed. The other girls were still performing, though the show was winding down. It was getting late and he suspected Bokuto and Kuroo would take their men and leave at any time. He’d excused himself to the restroom and he hoped Oikawa hadn’t noticed the way he’d fidgeted when he’d recognized Shimizu.

He ducked through the door that led to the dressing rooms and caught sight of long, black hair disappearing around the corner. He broke into a sprint and caught up to her just before she stepped inside one of the dancers’ private rooms.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low. “ _Shimizu_.”

She stopped with her hand on the doorknob and took a single, steadying breath before turning to face him. She stood tall, unashamed of the thin scraps of lace that barely preserved her decency. “Iwaizumi.”

“What are you doing here?”

Her face didn’t change. “Dancing.”

“Did Sawamura put you undercover?” asked Iwaizumi, his voice dropping into a whisper. He looked around again, though he’d already confirmed no one else was within range. 

She didn’t answer the question. Instead she said, “I’ve seen you at least five times, Iwaizumi. If this is the first night you’ve noticed me then clearly your detective skills have gone downhill.”

Embarrassment burst in Iwaizumi’s chest like a cheap firework. “I didn’t- I mean, I haven’t been… I don’t really pay attention to the dancers.”

“I know.”

It was a simple statement, but Iwaizumi read the context beneath the words. He felt his face heat up, a slight burn across his cheeks. “He said he wasn’t sending anyone else undercover in Seijoh since… since it went badly last time.”

“I’m not undercover as yakuza,” she said. “I’m just a dancer. If I happen to pick up any pertinent information along the way, then I may decide to pass it along.”

“You worked patrol for years, Shimizu. What would you have done if they’d recognized you? If they knew you were an officer-”

“I’m not an officer,” she said. “I’m a sergeant now. I replaced Sawamura when he was promoted.”

Iwaizumi was wholly unsurprised. “A sergeant shouldn’t be doing this kind of work.”

“They should if they are the only one suited for it.”

“Shimizu, you could get yourself killed.”

Her eyes glinted in the low light. They were much sharper without the shield of her glasses. He vaguely wondered if she’d exchanged them for contacts.

“You could have gotten yourself killed too, Iwaizumi. You chose to go undercover anyway. The difference is that I will report everything I learn to Captain Sawamura. I will not go rogue.”

She turned to step away and Iwaizumi seized her by the arm. “Wait.”

“Let go.”

The command was more jarring than an electric shock. Iwaizumi stepped back and raised his hands in apology. “Just listen to me. You need to get out of here. Now.”

Shimizu tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A dusting of glitter sparkled in her hair. “I’ve been here for three months. If they haven’t recognized me yet then they are not going to.”

“They don’t know you,” agreed Iwaizumi, “but I do.”

It wasn’t a blatant threat, but tension spiked the air like broken glass.

Shimizu’s face hardened. “What are you saying?”

“You need to get out. Get your stuff and go. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

Shimizu stood taller. Even with her heels, she was still a few centimeters shy of Iwaizumi’s height. Regardless of her small stature, her presence was fierce. “You’ll give me ten minutes before _what?_ ”

“Before I tell Oikawa you’re with the police.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Iwaizumi’s face burned hotter. He didn’t know if it was another flutter of embarrassment or if it was something more toxic, like shame. “I have to. If he finds out who you are and he knows I didn’t tell him, he’ll kill us both.”

“You don’t belong to him, Iwaizumi. You owe him nothing.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Then please explain.”

Iwaizumi started to speak, stopped, and shook his head. “The rules aren’t the same here. If I’m not with him then I’m against him, and if I’m against him, I’m dead.”

“Then why did you come here instead of working with Sawamura?”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond, then realized how much time was trickling away. If he stayed gone for too long it was going to look suspicious. 

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he said, “but it’s just how it is. Get out and go back to the station where you’ll be safe. Oikawa will have people out looking for you. Ten minutes.”

He turned and started back the way he’d come, guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

“Iwaizumi.” 

He didn’t stop walking. He couldn’t.

From behind him, Shimizu spoke anyway.

“I thought better of you.”

Iwaizumi’s footsteps stalled. He closed his eyes and took a breath that shook a little. Then he moved forward again, trying to arrange his face back into something neutral. He couldn’t appear flustered when he rejoined the group. 

As he’d expected, Bokuto and Kuroo were on their way out the door. They were exchanging pleasantries with Oikawa, who was wearing his mask again. He looked perfectly at ease, pleased by the presence of his guests.

Beneath that, however, Iwaizumi sensed his strain.

Iwaizumi waited by the bar, which Kunimi had already abandoned. He spoke only to a mismatched pair of Nekoma members – a very tall one and a very short one – as they left, and that was only to offer a cursory goodbye. They didn’t look at him with any measure of suspicion, so he assumed they didn’t know who he was. He was okay with that. He wished no one in the entire city knew who he was.

When they were gone, the club was locked up, and Oikawa breathed a subtle sigh. Iwaizumi checked his watch. It had been twelve minutes since he’d left Shimizu. It was more time than he’d promised.

If she was still waiting around, it was her own fault.

He pushed away from his perch against the bar and crossed the floor with heavy, reluctant steps. “Oikawa. I need to talk to you.”

  
  
  
They didn’t find Shimizu. She had taken Iwaizumi’s advice and gotten out of the club. Oikawa sent men out looking for her, but as of an hour later, their search was a failure. Iwaizumi tried not to seem relieved. He had followed Oikawa down to his office, from which he’d snapped orders at every Seijoh member within a five-block radius to go out and search for his missing dancer.

Oikawa was fuming, and he didn’t even try to hide it.

“I gave her the center stage,” he said, drumming his fingers against his desk in an angry staccato rhythm. “I let her dance even though she was uncomfortable with nudity. I was good to her and _this_ is what I get.” He slapped his hand flat. “How did she leave so fast? She didn’t even have time to get changed. She’d just stepped off the stage when Kuroo decided to leave.”

“She saw me,” said Iwaizumi. “She must have.”

“She’s been here while you were here before,” said Oikawa. “Why didn’t she leave then?”

“Maybe she didn’t notice me. I didn’t notice her until tonight.”

Oikawa’s stare went flat. “I’ve never even seen you _look_ at the dancers, Iwa-chan. It’s a miracle you even saw her.”

Iwaizumi scowled and tried not to flush again. He shouldn’t be embarrassed about this in front of Oikawa, of all people.

“Shimizu,” mused Oikawa. “Tomorrow I may call Kuroo and see if he’ll have Kenma dig up some information on her. She’ll probably be in hiding now, but it would still be good to know who’s infiltrated the club for the past three months. Do you know much about her?”

Iwaizumi shook his head. “I know she used to work with Sawamura, but that’s it.”

Oikawa made a humming sound. His anger was beginning to drain into irritation, which was a definite improvement. It made him less volatile.

“Sawamura. Of course it’s Sawamura. Why is it always Sawamura?”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “He’s persistent.”

“He’s a pain in my ass.” Oikawa tapped his fingers against the desk one last time before standing. “Something needs to be done about him. I wonder if…”

He trailed off, and Iwaizumi felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest.

Sawamura wasn’t one of his favorite people right now, but he certainly didn’t want to see him get hurt. 

Oikawa paced across the room and sighed. “That would probably be more trouble than it’s worth. If word gets out that I got rid of Sawamura then the entire police force would be so far up my ass that I’d be completely immobile. If Kyoutani was around, though, just maybe…”

He trailed off again. Iwaizumi knew he shouldn’t speak, but found himself saying, “Where is Kyoutani?”

Oikawa’s pacing stopped mid-step. He studied the far wall, his eyes slightly unfocused. “I would love to tell you, Iwa-chan,” he said quietly, “but I have no idea.”

He didn’t seem eager to discuss it, and Iwaizumi didn’t push. He still felt it was a bad idea for Oikawa to know Kyoutani’s current location. It would only inflate his ire against Sawamura and provoke him into doing something reckless.

Oikawa started moving again, measured steps carrying him to the corner and back. Instead of continuing on along the wall, he branched off and leaned against the front of his desk, looking down at Iwaizumi. “Why’d you tell me about Shimizu?”

Iwaizumi blinked up at him. He wanted to stand so Oikawa wouldn’t tower so far above him, but resolutely remained in place. “I thought it was something you’d like to know.”

“Well obviously,” said Oikawa with a huff, “but that doesn’t explain anything. You’ve already made it clear that you have no interest in Seijoh. Why would you choose us over the police?”

“I’m not choosing anyone. I just thought you should know.”

“But _why?_ ”

“I don’t know,” snapped Iwaizumi. His own temper was beginning to flare. Oikawa’s questions were putting him on edge. “I told you something you wanted to know. Stop hounding me about it, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa bent over and slapped his hands on either side of Iwaizumi, gripping the armrests of his chair and hovering a few inches in front of his face.

Iwaizumi sat back as far as the space would allow. He expected a wildfire flash of anger, but all he saw on Oikawa’s face was steady concentration.

“You stayed here to help catch the killer,” said Oikawa. He spoke in a low tone. “I understand that. What I can’t understand is why you would go out of your way to help me with something like this.”

“I know how you feel about traitors,” said Iwaizumi. He tried to sound steady, but it was difficult with Oikawa so close to him. “If I’d known she was undercover and hadn’t told you, you would’ve killed me when you found out.”

“If you were part of Seijoh that would be true, but you’re not. You aren’t obligated to me in any way. So why would you help me?”

Iwaizumi looked away but Oikawa gripped him by the chin and forced his face back around. Oikawa’s eyes were dark. 

“Old habit, I guess,” said Iwaizumi, forcing the words through his teeth.

“Try again, Hajime,” said Oikawa. He didn’t release Iwaizumi’s face. His fingers dug uncomfortably into his jaw. “The truth.”

Iwaizumi swallowed. He pulled his face to the side and Oikawa let him go. “When I agreed to work with Seijoh on this case, I said I’m with you,” he muttered. The words were hard to say, like they were wrapped in barbed wire. “I think you’ll figure this out before Sawamura. Having the police nosing around is going to slow things down.”

Oikawa didn’t move. He was so close that Iwaizumi had to force himself not to fidget, so close that Iwaizumi could smell a whiff of familiar cologne that nearly drowned him in a wave of nostalgia.

“When this is over,” said Oikawa, “what are you going to do?”

“I’ll go back to Kyoto.”

The answer was quick, the words leaving his mouth in a rush. He didn’t allow himself to think of alternative choices. It was the only option. He would go back to Kyoto and pretend none of this had ever happened.

Oikawa exhaled a gentle sigh before standing. Iwaizumi found himself able to breathe a little more easily.

“I doubt we’ll find Shimizu,” he said, as if that conversation hadn’t happened, “if we haven’t already. Regardless, she isn’t our main concern.” Oikawa stepped back around the desk and dropped into his chair. “What do you think about Bokuto and Kuroo?”

The change of subject was welcome. Iwaizumi sat up a little straighter and tried to relax. “It’s hard to tell with Kuroo, but neither of them seemed to be lying. They acted like they didn’t know anything about the murders.” 

Oikawa propped his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in his palms. It was easier for Iwaizumi to look at him when his face was hidden.

“I think you’re right,” said Oikawa. “Bokuto’s never killed anyone in his life. Kuroo could lie his way out of anything, but I think he was being genuine.” Oikawa shifted and peered at Iwaizumi through his fingers. “What are we supposed to do now?”

It wasn’t the first time Oikawa had asked him for advice, but it surprised him that Oikawa would still value his opinion now, after what they’d been through.

“We’re out of leads,” said Iwaizumi. “Our best bet is to check back with Ushijima and see if he has any more information about the killing in his territory. If he has connections with the police he might be able to find out something we can’t. Have all your guys stay alert in case it happens again. At this point there’s not much else we can do.”

He only realized after he’d said it that he’d spoken in plurals. He was subconsciously lumping himself in with Oikawa.

“I hate asking Ushiwaka for anything,” mumbled Oikawa. He dropped his hands and sat back in his chair. “Maybe he only called to throw me off. Maybe he’s really the one doing it after all.”

“You know you don’t believe that.”

“Well maybe it’s one of his guys, then. It’s hard to keep a monster on a leash.”

Iwaizumi knew he was referring to Tendou. He also knew that Tendou was so loyal to Ushijima that he would die before betraying him. “You know none of them will step a toe out of line without Ushijima’s permission. You just want to think they did it because you already hate them. It would be easier for you if they were at fault.”

“Shut up, Iwa-chan.”

“Stop calling me that, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa glared up at him, though the expression was half-hearted. “I guess two years wasn’t long enough for you to forget that stupid nickname.”

Iwaizumi couldn’t stop the twitch of a smile. “Two years wasn’t long enough for you to get less shitty.”

Oikawa laughed a little. It was different from the laughter he’d offered Bokuto and Kuroo during their visit. This was more subdued, but more genuine.

“I hated you for leaving,” said Oikawa quietly, “but I would be lying if I said I haven’t missed you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi bit his lip to keep from wincing. He looked down at the floor and pretended Oikawa’s words hadn’t cut straight through him.

Iwaizumi couldn’t have this conversation. He couldn’t do this.

Oikawa seemed to understand, or he was simply done talking. He rose and said, “I’m going to find Yahaba. He and I need to have a talk.” 

Iwaizumi stood to follow him out. They left the office and walked down the hallway in a silence that wasn’t exactly comfortable. 

Just before they reached the door to Iwaizumi’s room, Oikawa said, “Thanks for the help tonight, Iwa-chan.” He slid his hand onto Iwaizumi’s shoulder and lightly squeezed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Iwaizumi gave a grunt of acknowledgment and said nothing. He keyed in the code, stepped into his room, and felt like repeatedly bashing his head into the wall.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

The heat he’d felt when Oikawa had been too close, the pain when Oikawa had said he’d missed him, the little jolt that stole his breath when Oikawa touched him.

Iwaizumi couldn’t do this. Not again.

He should leave. If he went now, he could get away from the situation before he got in too deep. This didn’t have to be like last time. He’d learned the warning signs. He knew what was about to happen and he knew the only way to stop it was to get out.

Iwaizumi needed to leave.

But until the case was over, he knew wasn’t going anywhere.

  
  
  
  
  
****

*********

****

**TWO YEARS AGO**

****

*********

 

 

 

Negotiations with Fukurodani hadn’t gone as smoothly as Oikawa had hoped.

Kuroo had met with them the week before, to no avail. Rather than giving up completely, Oikawa had volunteered to give it a try.

The first problem was that the Fukurodani boss hadn’t bothered to show up to the meeting Oikawa had arranged. He’d sent one of his advisors instead, and the man was absolutely unbearable.

“We don’t try to dictate your business,” said Kimura. He was tall and gaunt and reminded Iwaizumi of a walking skeleton. “So it would be beneficial for you to stay out of ours, as well.”

Only ten minutes had passed since Kimura had arrived, and it was already apparent that no progress would be made. Iwaizumi had known it was a waste of time from the second Kimura had walked through the door instead of the boss.

“I’m not dictating anything,” said Oikawa. On the surface he looked perfectly calm, but Iwaizumi was attuned to his fury. “I am only concerned about the impact your activities will have on Seijoh.”

“Seijoh is not our concern,” said Kimura. “If you cannot keep your own syndicate in check then that is your problem.”

Oikawa’s mask cracked. There was a flash of irritation in narrowed eyes, but it smoothed back out immediately. “My ability to run Seijoh is not in question. Fukurodani’s recklessness is becoming an issue for all of us, not just Seijoh. Something needs to be done.”

Kimura pushed himself to his feet. “As I already said, our business has nothing to do with you. You should tend to your own.” He left the table and started toward the door where Iwaizumi stood by, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Don’t contact us about this again,” said Kimura. “Tell your friend at Nekoma the same. We know what we’re doing. We know how to run a business, unlike you. All you know is killing and backstabbing.”

Oikawa might have reacted to the insult. Iwaizumi wasn’t sure. He didn’t have time to check Oikawa’s reaction because he was in motion, stepping in front of Kimura to block his way. Before he could stop himself, before he had time to think, he backhanded Kimura through the face with so much force that the man staggered back and dropped to one knee. The crack of flesh on flesh was like a gunshot.

Rage boiled in Iwaizumi’s blood, so hotly that he expected to catch flame. “You do _not_ talk to Oikawa like that,” he said, his voice deafening in the sudden ringing silence of the room. 

Kimura looked up at him, one hand clutched against his face. There was a spark of fear behind his eyes.

“Let him go, Hajime,” said Oikawa. He looked unbothered, but there was something sharp about the set of his mouth. “He’s no one. It doesn’t matter what he says about me. It means nothing.”

Iwaizumi took a step to the side as Kimura scrambled to his feet and left without another word. His anger ebbed into anxiety when Oikawa approached him with that unreadable look on his face.

“What was that for, Hajime?” said Oikawa. His voice was low, similar to the fatal tone he used when Kyoutani was cutting into traitor flesh. “Protecting my honor?”

“I’m sorry,” said Iwaizumi. “I didn’t mean to do it. I just…”

He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure why he’d lashed out. He only knew that he had been absolutely furious on Oikawa’s behalf. 

“Don’t apologize,” said Oikawa. He tilted his head slightly, still eyeing Iwaizumi with an inscrutable gaze. “This may make tensions between our syndicates a little higher, but it isn’t as if there’s much of a relationship to salvage.”

Iwaizumi said nothing. He didn’t know what Oikawa wanted.

Oikawa grinned. It was sharp, but not dangerous. He raised a hand and brushed his fingers against Iwaizumi’s jaw. The contact was barely there, fleeting. 

Iwaizumi’s chest constricted so tightly he thought his heart would be crushed to a pulp.

“Thank you, Hajime,” murmured Oikawa.

His hand fell away and he stepped through the door.

Iwaizumi couldn’t immediately move. He realized he was holding his breath and sucked in a lungful of air.

His primary duty of this undercover mission was to get close to Oikawa. He was doing this for his job. All of the relationships he’d built with the members of Seijoh weren’t real. None of this was supposed to be real.

But the way he’d felt when Oikawa touched him had certainly been real.


	10. Chapter 10

Iwaizumi hadn’t set an alarm, so he wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke up. He’d developed a fairly accurate internal clock from his time with the police department, but living underground with Seijoh, away from the sun, warped his sense of time. It was always dark down there.

When the hand on his shoulder shook him into full awareness, he assumed it was early, because he was still too tired from the late night. 

He was so tired that it took him a moment too long to realize it was Oikawa leaning over him, muttering something under his breath.

Iwaizumi sat up so quickly that he nearly headbutted him. “What are you doing?”

Oikawa rolled his eyes, but even beneath the sarcasm, Iwaizumi saw the tension tugging at the lines of his face. “Trying to wake you up, obviously. You sleep like a caveman, Iwa-chan.” His gaze dropped a little lower, where the sheets had fallen away from Iwaizumi’s bare chest.

Iwaizumi resisted the urge to cover himself. There was no reason for him to be self-conscious. “What’s wrong?”

Oikawa looked up again, meeting his eyes. “Have you still been working with Sawamura?”

“No. I haven’t talked to him since the night I came here,” said Iwaizumi. He didn’t know why Oikawa had felt the need to wake him for that question. Judging from his own weariness, he would guess that it was no later than eight o’clock. 

Oikawa pondered that. Then he said, “He’s upstairs asking for you.”

Iwaizumi’s brain buzzed, blank. “Who?”

“Did you not – _Sawamura_ ,” said Oikawa, with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Do you even listen when I talk?”

“What does he want?”

“You. He came banging on the front door demanding to see you. Mattsun talked to him.”

Iwaizumi leaned over to scrabble at the nightstand for his phone. The sheets fell lower and he was exceedingly grateful that he didn’t sleep nude. 

The display on his phone read 8:05. He had no missed calls or messages. “He hasn’t tried to contact me.”

“Well he’s here anyway,” said Oikawa. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, trying to flatten it down. It was clear that he’d been dragged out of bed in a hurry. His shirt wasn’t tucked in properly and there was a strand of hair out of place. For Oikawa, that was absolute disarray. “If you don’t want to talk to him I’ll send him away, but I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“It’s fine,” said Iwaizumi. “I’ll talk to him.” He shoved the sheets away and swung his legs out of the bed. He pointedly ignored Oikawa as he got dressed. He didn’t want to know if he was still being watched. 

As Iwaizumi finished buttoning his shirt, Oikawa said, “You haven’t asked for a gun.”

“Why would I?” said Iwaizumi. He tugged down his sleeve and buttoned the cuff. “I don’t need one.”

“Staying here makes you a target.”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “I’m used to being a target. Besides, even if I asked, you wouldn’t give me one. You don’t give weapons to someone you can’t trust.”

Oikawa’s neutral mask was so flawless that even Iwaizumi couldn’t see through it. “That’s true.”

“I’ll try to get Sawamura out fast,” he said. He moved to step past Oikawa, but a hand darted out and snagged his arm.

“What do you think he wants?” said Oikawa. “Is he trying to get information from you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

Iwaizumi held his gaze. “Are you worried?”

Oikawa’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Should I be?”

Iwaizumi shook off Oikawa’s hand, a flare of anger surging through his veins. “You’re the one who wanted me here,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “If you think I’m going to sell you out to Sawamura then I’ll leave.”

He took a step toward the door, but halted again as Oikawa spoke.

“Maybe you only came back because you knew I would make you stay,” said Oikawa. “Maybe you came back to Tokyo to try and redeem yourself. Maybe you’re only here to gather information for Sawamura and finish the job from two years ago.”

Iwaizumi’s anger soured into bitterness. He turned on Oikawa, who still watched him with that maddening lack of expression.

“If I was working with the police I wouldn’t have told you about Shimizu.”

“Unless that was arranged beforehand,” said Oikawa. “It could have been a ploy to make me trust you.”

“I’m not dealing with this,” said Iwaizumi. “If you want me to leave then tell me. Otherwise I’m staying until this fucking case is over.”

“And then you’re running back to Kyoto.”

That stung, and Iwaizumi wasn’t sure why. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” Oikawa brushed past him and stepped through the door, Iwaizumi a few steps behind. “I don’t think you’re playing me, Iwa-chan. I have to check, though, since you fooled me once before.”

It was the truth, but it still hurt.

“Go talk to Sawamura,” said Oikawa. He gestured to Hanamaki, who was waiting in the hall. “Mattsun is upstairs watching the door. If you need anything let him know. I think it’s in my best interest to stay as far away from Sawamura as possible.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all morning,” muttered Iwaizumi. 

Hanamaki smirked at the comment, but Oikawa didn’t acknowledge it. 

“I’ll be in my office,” said Oikawa. “Come talk to me when he’s gone.”

Iwaizumi nodded and headed for the stairs. 

The main level of the club was nearly vacant. It was strange to see it so empty after the bustle of the night before. The remnants of the event were still evident. The tables and chairs were in disarray, the bar was loaded with dirty glasses, and a fine dusting of glitter sparkled on the catwalks. The cleaning crew would arrive soon to tidy up before the club reopened for the night.

Matsukawa stood by the door with his arms folded. He looked as bored as usual, but his eyes didn’t stray from the man who was decidedly out of place amid the disorder.

“Captain,” said Iwaizumi as he approached.

Sawamura eyed him, his speculation obvious. “Iwaizumi. We need to talk.” 

“About what?”

Sawamura looked over his shoulder at Matsukawa. “I would prefer not to have an audience. Let’s step outside.”

Iwaizumi wasn’t sure that was the best idea, but he also wasn’t sure that he wanted anyone to overhear their conversation. There were things he preferred Oikawa didn’t know. “Sure.”

They stepped past Matsukawa, who watched them like a silent sentry, and emerged into the morning sunshine. 

Iwaizumi winced against the brightness. He’d been at Seijoh for only a week and had already readjusted to his past nocturnal habits. 

“Let’s have a seat over here.”

Iwaizumi followed him without argument. It was early morning on a Saturday, so the foot traffic was light. They sat on a bench cast into shadow by the overhang of a neighboring building. Still, the sun was a little too bright.

Sawamura exhaled as he sat. He was dressed in full uniform, which shouldn’t have made Iwaizumi uncomfortable.

The silence stretched on for several minutes. Iwaizumi stared blankly across the street, watching the few pedestrians pass by. Most of them looked back, their attention automatically drawn to Sawamura and the police cruiser parked at the curb.

“Shimizu told me what you did.”

Iwaizumi didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.

“I’d hoped,” said Sawamura, “that your decision to stay here with Oikawa was strategic. I’d convinced myself that you were trying to do the right thing. I guess I didn’t learn my lesson the first time.”

“I am doing the right thing,” said Iwaizumi. Sawamura’s accusations stung, but not as badly as Oikawa’s had. “I’m going to find out who’s killing people. This is just a means to an end.”

“You’re working with a crime syndicate, Iwaizumi.”

“I’m doing what I have to do.”

“You could have helped us instead. That’s why I brought you here.”

“I know,” said Iwaizumi, “but you’re not going to catch the murderer. You’re too fixated on Seijoh to look at the situation objectively.”

“You’re the last person who should lecture me on objectivity, Iwaizumi.” 

Iwaizumi ignored that jab. “You know there were more killings in Shiratorizawa territory, right? Are you still trying to blame Oikawa for that?”

“Maybe he did,” said Sawamura. “He’s never gotten along with Ushijima, right?”

“Oikawa wouldn’t murder an entire family just because he and Ushijima have their differences. Even if he did, that wouldn’t explain the deaths in Seijoh’s territory. If you keep taking shots in the dark you’re never going to hit anything, Sawamura.”

Sawamura’s jaw tightened. “Don’t worry about what I’m doing. You need to worry about yourself. When Seijoh goes down for this, I can’t guarantee you won’t go down with them.”

“The only way they’ll go down for it is if you frame them,” said Iwaizumi. “I thought you were above that.”

Either Sawamura didn’t take offense or he hid it well. “I heard Nekoma and Fukurodani were here last night.”

There was no point denying that. He knew Shimizu had already confirmed it. “Yeah.”

“They’ve been on the outs with Seijoh lately,” said Sawamura. “Has Oikawa patched things up with them?”

He was fishing for information, and he wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it. “I don’t know. I’m not part of Seijoh.”

Sawamura slid him a glance. “That’s interesting. Shimizu said you were right beside Oikawa all night.”

Iwaizumi’s expression flickered. He struggled to remain impassive. “Is that so?”

“She said the three bosses kept to themselves. The only ones allowed at their table were their most trusted advisors.” The look he gave Iwaizumi was piercing. “You’ve only been here for a week and Oikawa has already taken you back. Unbelievable.”

Iwaizumi had no reason to get upset by that. He knew Sawamura was only talking about his status in Seijoh. It wasn’t personal. 

Still, he gripped the arm of the bench so tightly that it bit into his palm. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.” 

The tight anger in his voice caught Sawamura off guard. He blinked at Iwaizumi, trying to puzzle out the source of his fury, and then dropped it.

“Shimizu said you let her get out before Oikawa caught her,” said Sawamura. “I appreciate the gesture. But that doesn’t excuse you from blowing her cover.”

“I didn’t expect it to,” said Iwaizumi. “I don’t need to be excused. You’re the one who could’ve gotten her killed by sending her here in the first place.”

“She knew what she was getting into.”

“So did you, which is why you should have kept her out of it.”

Sawamura stood. The handcuffs clipped to the back of his belt clinked with the motion. “Don’t tell me how to do my job. The opinion of a rogue officer means nothing to me.”

Iwaizumi followed his lead and stood as well. Their height was the same, as were their matched stares of disdain.

“It doesn’t matter what you say, Iwaizumi. As far as I’m concerned, you’re one of them. Watch your back.”

Sawamura had never been one for threats. It was more of a warning. Still, Iwaizumi didn’t appreciate the suggestion.

“I’ll let you know when the case is over,” said Iwaizumi. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “There won’t be anyone left alive for you to prosecute, but at least you can stop looking.”

“The yakuza has no authority over this. It’s a crime, and the police will handle it.”

“We’ll see.” Iwaizumi turned away and started back toward the club. “Don’t come back here again, Sawamura. I don’t have anything else to say to you.” 

He should have felt guilty for turning against Sawamura when the captain was the one who’d called him back to Tokyo. On the contrary, that made his irritation toward Sawamura even worse. 

Iwaizumi shouldn’t even be here. It was Sawamura’s fault that he’d gotten dragged into this. Everything was Sawamura’s fault.

When he stepped back into the club, Matsukawa was waiting. “Everything alright?” he said, as Iwaizumi slammed the door shut. 

“Fine.”

Matsukawa’s height forced Iwaizumi to look up at him. Some of the other Seijoh members looked different than they had two years ago – Yahaba most of all – but Matsukawa looked exactly the same. He had the same dark curls and the same perpetually bored expression. The top of his left ear was gone, but the disfiguration was mostly covered by his hair. 

Iwaizumi had always liked Matsukawa. The friendship he’d built with him hadn’t just been a product of the job.

“You sure about that?” said Matsukawa, raising a single thick brow.

Iwaizumi sighed. “No.”

Matsukawa clapped him on the back but said nothing else. Iwaizumi started toward the back of the building to return to Oikawa’s office. 

For the exception of the warning he’d given Shimizu, he supposed he might as well tell Oikawa everything else Sawamura had said. There was no point keeping secrets.

He’d already chosen a side.

  
  
  
  
  


*********

  
**TWO YEARS AGO**

*********

 

Most of the time when Oikawa sent them out on errands, it was for something related to Seijoh’s business. Sometimes it was to collect money, like the time Iwaizumi had accompanied Kindaichi. Other times it was to deliver shipments, as Oikawa had tasked Iwaizumi to do for his first solo mission. Most of the time it was to meet up with some of Oikawa’s other colleagues to exchange sensitive information that he didn’t trust with his lower-tier members. 

Occasionally, however, their errands had nothing to do with Seijoh.

“He really expects us to walk ten blocks away,” said Iwaizumi, “just because his favorite milk bread comes from the bakery on Block 159?”

Matsukawa, who walked on his right, shrugged. “He’s asked us to do worse things. Right, Makki?”

On Iwaizumi’s other side, Hanamaki nodded. “Right. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit we’ve been through.”

Iwaizumi probably would have believed about anything at that point.

“Can’t he just send his driver to get it?” he said. “Wouldn’t that make more sense?”

“Does anything about Oikawa ever make sense?” said Hanamaki.

Iwaizumi couldn’t argue with that. Over the past few months he’d learned more about Oikawa than he probably should have.

He just shook his head and kept walking. He didn’t mind going to the bakery, despite the distance. It was a breezy afternoon, the sky was clouded over just enough to keep the air cool, and the crowd wasn’t so thick that they had to push through a mass of people just to walk along the sidewalk.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa weren’t bad company, either. They shared an endless sense of humor, which Iwaizumi hadn’t expected to find among members of the yakuza. He’d found out a lot about yakuza affiliates that he had never expected.

They weren’t the criminals that he’d been prepared for. Many of their activities were illicit, and Seijoh’s drug trade broke about fifty different laws by itself, but the men involved weren’t all that bad. 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa were good people. Kindaichi was one of the most loyal, caring men Iwaizumi had ever met. Even Kyoutani, who’d sliced a man to ribbons in front of him, wasn’t all bad.

And Oikawa…

It was best not to think about Oikawa.

The bottom line was that Seijoh wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d thought he was walking into a den of criminal masterminds whose morals were nonexistent. He’d considered yakuza to be walking scum, a plague on society.

His job was to collect enough information to send these men to prison for the rest of their lives. Getting them off of the streets would clean up the city and make Tokyo a better place, according to Sawamura. Iwaizumi had wholeheartedly believed that, too. He’d thought that bringing down the yakuza would be a victory.

But picturing these men in prison – Kindaichi and Hanamaki and Matsukawa and _Oikawa_ – didn’t make Iwaizumi feel like he was doing the world a service.

In fact, it made him a little nauseous.

That was why he’d blown off Sawamura’s phone calls for the past three weeks. That was why he hadn’t gone to the extraction point to be pulled out of his mission and taken into protective custody. 

It was why he had never completed his report, and had no intention to do so.

Iwaizumi couldn’t be the one to destroy Seijoh, and he’d sacrificed everything for the preservation of the syndicate. He’d sold himself to the yakuza, and though it sickened him, the thought of singlehandedly abolishing Seijoh was even more detestable.

Matsukawa nudged him with an elbow. “You alright? You look weird.”

Iwaizumi shook his head and pulled himself back into the conversation. “Yeah, I’m good. I was just thinking.”

Matsukawa didn’t look convinced, but Hanamaki spoke up.

“You know, this place has some great mochi. Me and Mattsun get it every time we have to go. You should buy us some. Since we’re doing you a favor.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow at him. “What favor?”

“We’re going to the bakery with you,” he said. “Oikawa only needed one person to go. We were just generous enough to keep you company. You owe us.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Hanamaki grinned and Matsukawa snorted a laugh.

They were decent guys. Iwaizumi honestly considered them his friends.

Although that would probably change if they ever found out who Iwaizumi really was.

They crossed the street and continued walking along the next block. The wind was still light, as was the pedestrian traffic. Snatches of conversations floated on the air around them, the smell of food from street vendors swirled on the breeze, and an occasional ray of sunlight seeped through the clouds to warm Iwaizumi’s face.

It was a perfect day. Everything was calm. Iwaizumi should have been at ease.

Instead, he felt a persistent itch at the back of his brain, demanding attention. He glanced from Matsukawa to Hanamaki, but they didn’t seem to notice anything was amiss. Hanamaki had started telling a story about something Kunimi had done the day before. His posture was relaxed, his gait easy. 

Iwaizumi turned his head to look behind them. The people following along after them on the sidewalk were normal civilians. There was nothing suspicious about them at all. Everything seemed to be in order, but that itch refused to go away.

“Hey, Watanabe,” said Matsukawa. 

It took Iwaizumi a beat too long to recognize his fake name. “Yeah?”

“You sure you’re alright?”

Iwaizumi swiveled his head back to look at him, and then looked past him.

A car had pulled up to park at the curb. It was facing the wrong way, into oncoming traffic. That in itself wasn’t much cause for concern. Not everyone in Tokyo was an excellent driver. 

The itch intensified, and Iwaizumi stopped.

The car was black. Not just the paint, but the windows, too. They’d been tinted so darkly that Iwaizumi could see nothing beyond them. 

The itch dug in so deeply that it morphed into panic.

“Wait,” he said, though the warning was pointless. Hanamaki and Matsukawa had already stopped to stare at him. “That car. It doesn’t look right.”

They followed his gaze. As the trio stared, the back window began to roll down slowly.

From behind the dark tint, Iwaizumi saw a flash of silver.

He was in motion before he even realized what he was seeing. His instincts were stronger than his logic. He dived forward, gave his two friends a hard shove, and shouted, “Get down!”

The gunfire came a split second before Iwaizumi hit the ground. It was loud, but the shrieks of the civilians were louder. 

“Fuck,” said Iwaizumi under his breath. He scrambled forward on his knees and elbows, keeping as low to the ground as possible. He crawled up beside a taxi parked on the street and pressed his back against it, using the vehicle for cover. He dipped a hand beneath his jacket and slid out one of his guns. 

There was another smatter of gunshots, then the screech of tires as the black car sped away. Iwaizumi stayed down, his chin tucked against his chest, and waited for the roar of the engine to fade. 

People were still screaming. The street had devolved into chaos. 

He rose from his crouch and took a quick sweep of the street. The car was gone, and so was the itch in his skull.

He put his gun away to avoid unnecessary attention and rushed around the bumper of the taxi. Hanamaki was on his feet. Matsukawa was not.

Hanamaki was shouting, but the words were a blur. The only thing Iwaizumi could focus on was the blood painting the sidewalk.

His breath was loud in his own ears as he rushed across the distance between them and dropped to his knees beside Matsukawa. Hanamaki was still yelling, and although he was practically in Iwaizumi’s face, it sounded distant.

Matsukawa’s face was smeared with blood. It had soaked into his hair and dripped down his neck. He was lying flat on the ground, but as Iwaizumi knelt over him, he tried to push himself up.

Iwaizumi planted a hand in the middle of his chest and pinned him there. “Don’t move. Just stay down until a medic gets here.”

Matsukawa squinted at him. “What?”

Iwaizumi repeated himself, more loudly. Hanamaki crouched on Matsukawa’s other side. He was shaking, clearly in the throes of panic.

Matsukawa shook his head and winced. “No medics. We have to get away from here before the police show up.”

“You were just _shot_!” said Iwaizumi. He was vaguely aware that a small crowd was forming around them. 

“Exactly.”

“You have to get to the hospital, Mattsun,” said Iwaizumi. He’d heard the nickname so many times that it fell through his lips automatically. “You have to see a doctor before-”

“Makki.” Matsukawa gripped at Hanamaki’s sleeve. “Will you talk to him? I have a headache.”

Hanamaki laughed. It was high-pitched, almost manic. His eyes were wide and wild, but when he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “Anyone who shows up will know we’re yakuza,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if we’re the victims. The association makes us guilty anyway. We have to go. Mattsun, can you get up?”

“I think so.”

“This is crazy!” said Iwaizumi. “He needs medical attention! He needs-”

“He needs you to calm the fuck down,” snapped Hanamaki. “I thought you were the reasonable one here.”

Iwaizumi just stared as Hanamaki helped Matsukawa to his feet. Blood dripped in scarlet rivulets down the side of his neck. His left ear was half gone. Bits of skin and cartilage were lodged in his hair, drenched in blood.

“Think you can walk?” said Hanamaki. He slipped an arm around Matsukawa’s waist and took some of his weight.

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

“This is fucking crazy,” said Iwaizumi, as the pair of them started toward the street. The cluster of onlookers parted quickly to let them pass. 

“Hey, Watanabe. Wave us down a cab,” said Hanamaki. “I’ve got my hands full here.”

Iwaizumi felt numb. Surely this was a dream. Surely this wasn’t something that could actually happen. He started forward, and he felt like he was floating along. 

In the distance, the sound of sirens echoed through the city.

“Shit,” said Hanamaki. “Hey, hurry it up.”

Iwaizumi stepped out to the curb, watched a handful of traffic pass by, and then flagged down a taxi. It pulled over and parked parallel to the sidewalk. Iwaizumi opened the door for Matsukawa, who started unsteadily forward, still supported by Hanamaki.

The driver’s eyes got wide. His hand moved, and he clearly intended to drive away before he got involved in this.

The siren was getting louder. They didn’t have time.

Iwaizumi pulled out his gun again and tapped the muzzle against the front window. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “You’re giving us a ride.”

The man’s hands flew up in surrender. 

Iwaizumi should have felt something like crippling shame from brandishing a gun at a taxi driver, but he felt nothing but concern for Matsukawa, who slid drunkenly into the backseat of the car.

Hanamaki stepped in behind him, and Iwaizumi followed. It was a close fit, and Iwaizumi was closer to Hanamaki than he’d ever cared to be, but at least they were in motion. The driver pulled away from the curb and merged with traffic. He was a little shaky, but he seemed okay to get them back to Aoba Johsai safely. Iwaizumi told him their destination and he just nodded. 

Iwaizumi slumped back in his seat and reholstered his gun. An elbow nearly slammed into his face as Hanamaki struggled out of his jacket. 

“Dammit,” hissed Hanamaki, battling with the sleeves. “I can’t… Here, help me.”

Iwaizumi gripped the end of his sleeve and Hanamaki managed to escape from the jacket. When he was free, he shifted forward, slid a knife out of his back pocket, and sawed off one of the sleeves.

Iwaizumi watched silently as he ripped apart the fabric and tied it around Matsukawa’s head as a makeshift tourniquet. Matsukawa hissed and tried to bat him away, but Hanamaki sat half on top of him and finished tying it off. The sleeve covered one of Matsukawa’s eyes as well as the wound. 

“How are you feeling?” said Hanamaki. “You alright? Dizzy?”

“I’m good,” said Matsukawa. He leaned his head back against the seat. Blood dripped from his hair onto the upholstery. “I didn’t need that ear, anyway. I’ve got another one.”

Hanamaki rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Fuck, Mattsun. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry. Next time I’ll try a little harder not to get shot.”

“The fuck was that, anyway?” said Hanamaki. He dropped his hands and looked to Iwaizumi. 

“I don’t know, but I would guess Fukurodani.”

“Why would they have it out for us?” said Hanamaki. “I know Oikawa’s not getting along with them so well, but _fuck_. Shooting us is a little much. We never did shit to them.”

“I think…” Iwaizumi paused. He should probably keep his mouth shut, but they deserved to know the reason they’d almost been killed. He could have been wrong, but he couldn’t think of any other plausible reason that Fukurodani would have tracked them down. “I think maybe they were after me.”

“Why the fuck would they be after you?”

Iwaizumi glanced out the window. They were only a couple blocks away from the club, but traffic had gotten backed up. The delay was probably a result of the shooting down the street. 

“I pissed Kimura off when Oikawa met with him a few weeks ago. I kind of hit him in the face.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Hanamaki said, “You did what?”

“It was an accident,” said Iwaizumi. He tried not to sound defensive. “He insulted Oikawa and it just happened. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Hanamaki. He slouched back against the seat and closed his eyes. “You hit one of Fukurodani’s top guys in the face.”

“It wasn’t that big of a deal. Oikawa wasn’t even mad, he said-”

“Of course he wasn’t mad!” said Hanamaki. His voice was too loud; the driver flinched so badly that the car swerved a little. “It’s because it was _you!_ If Mattsun or I had done the same thing, Oikawa would’ve fucking killed us!”

Mattsun’s one visible eye was closed, but he carefully nodded in agreement.

Hanamaki slapped Iwaizumi in the chest, hard. “You can’t go around hitting people, you fucking idiot! Fukurodani doesn’t mess around. If you piss them off they’re going to kill you.”

“Or us,” mumbled Matsukawa. “Whoever.”

“Oikawa is going to flip his shit,” said Hanamaki. “Fuck.”

Iwaizumi didn’t want to think about how Oikawa was going to react. He didn’t even want to think about what was happening right now, with Matsukawa bleeding through his makeshift bandage and Hanamaki’s guns on full display because he’d sacrificed his jacket.

This was the biggest mess that Iwaizumi had ever been in, and it was his own fault. If he’d met up with Sawamura like he was supposed to, if he’d left Seijoh, none of this would have happened. He would be sitting safe and sound in an undisclosed location, having his meals delivered while arrest warrants were issued based on his reports.

He should have gotten out while he had the chance, but even now, if given the choice, he wasn’t sure if he would make a different decision. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [this great art](http://wheniseelevimyheartgoesdokidoki.tumblr.com/post/168696885470/wheniseelevimyheartgoesdokidoki-his-primary) of Chapter 9!! I saw it nearly two weeks ago and I'm still excited about it!

Two weeks passed uneventfully.

There were no more killings, no more information, and no more leads. 

Ushijima made a trip to Aoba Johsai to tell Oikawa everything he’d learned about the killing, but his information was nothing more than Iwaizumi had already read in the police files of the first two incidents. The only thing Ushijima’s presence accomplished was sending Oikawa into a downward spiral of irritation.

Iwaizumi didn’t know what to do. He felt as if they were wasting time with their inaction, but there was nothing else to be done. His investigation expertise and Oikawa’s connections had only gotten them so far, and they were at a dead end.

Most of Iwaizumi’s nights were spent in the thick of the Aoba Johsai crowd. He’d been tasked with keeping an eye on the customers and the entertainers to make sure Sawamura didn’t try to slip someone else into their midst. If anyone else there was undercover, they’d been hired after Iwaizumi had left. He recognized no one.

Someone slid onto the stool beside Iwaizumi, where he sat with his back toward the bar and a half-empty whiskey in his hand. 

“Hey,” said a voice. It was bright and feminine, not yet slurred by the drink in her hand. “The strippers are that way, you know.” She pointed toward the stage on the opposite side of the room as the door that Iwaizumi had been watching for the past hour. 

“Yeah.”

“Not interested, huh?”

“Not really.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “What about me, then?”

Another cluster of customers walked through the door. Iwaizumi squinted at them, looking for anyone familiar. “Huh?”

“Me,” said the girl, nudging his arm. “Are you interested in me?”

“No, sorry.”

“You haven’t even looked at me!”

Kindaichi walked through the door. He caught sight of Iwaizumi and started toward the bar.

The girl grew impatient and stood with a huff. She walked away and several male customers stopped to look at her.

She was pretty. Iwaizumi was certain she’d find someone else to flirt with, someone who could return her affections.

“Hey,” said Kindaichi. He sat beside Iwaizumi, on the girl’s vacated stool. “Is Oikawa back yet?”

“No,” said Iwaizumi. “Haven’t seen him.”

Oikawa had left the club about an hour before to meet with Irihata, an old Seijoh veteran. Irihata was no longer an active participant in Seijoh activities, but he lended his support whenever Oikawa had need of it. 

Iwaizumi doubted he would be able to help this time, though.

Kindaichi sighed. He looked over his shoulder toward the bartender, who was busy with a cluster of men at the opposite end. “Do you think he’s alright? He’s seemed a little off ever since Ushijima was here.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Iwaizumi, hoping it was the truth. He swirled his whiskey around the bottom of his glass before throwing it back. It burned a little, but it was somewhat comforting. He wasn’t allowing himself to get drunk, but a couple of whiskeys wasn’t going to hurt him.

Iwaizumi had spent more time than was probably wise with Oikawa over the past couple of weeks. It was obvious that the stress of the unsolved murders was eating away at him. He was much snappier than usual, and his flawless mask cracked more often that Iwaizumi had ever seen. 

Sawamura had shown up a few days before and asked Oikawa if he would consent to some casual questioning about the killings. Oikawa had refused, but not as politely as he should have. In fact, he might have said enough to get himself arrested for disorderly conduct if Iwaizumi hadn’t stepped in.

If they didn’t solve the case soon, Iwaizumi feared Oikawa would do something stupid.

Even more than that, he feared he wouldn’t be able to stop him.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. “Speak of the devil,” he mumbled, when he saw who was calling. He pressed the phone to his ear and said, “Hey, Oikawa.”

“Hajime, _where are you?_ ”

The only thing more startling than the sudden use of his given name was the frenetic heat in Oikawa’s voice.

“I’m at the club,” said Iwaizumi. He slid a glance at Kindaichi. “What’s wrong?”

“One of Makki’s guys called,” said Oikawa. He was talking too fast. The words were nearly blurring together in his rush. “He says someone is getting shot _right now_ in the flat next to his. He can see the flash of the gunshots. You need to get over there _now_ , Hajime. I’m halfway across the city. I won’t make it.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach lurched. The room seemed to spin a little and he gripped the edge of his stool to ground himself. “What?”

“You don’t sound like you’re moving,” snapped Oikawa. “He’s seen three… no, four flashes. They’re using a silencer, he can barely hear it. Get over there before someone else notices and calls the police. This is our guy, Hajime. We have to get him _now_.”

That spurred him into motion. Iwaizumi tossed his glass onto the bar, where it rolled off of the edge and shattered on the floor. He leaped off his stool, ignored the mess, and pushed through the crowd toward the door. “Where is it?”

“Who else is there?”

Iwaizumi looked over his shoulder. Kindaichi had followed him, sensing his urgency. “Kindaichi.”

“Good. Tell him it’s Adachi’s place. He’ll know where it is.”

“Got it.”

“And Hajime?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell him to give you one of his guns. You might need it.”

Iwaizumi gestured Kindaichi toward the door. “You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure. This guy obviously doesn’t mind killing anyone. Get him before he gets you. Kill him if you have to, but keep him alive if you can. A quick death is too good for him.”

Before Iwaizumi had become a police officer, hearing such a thing would have thrown him into shock.

Before he’d fallen in with Oikawa, receiving such an order would have made him balk.

When he spoke it was with only slight strain. “Okay.”

“I’m counting on you, Hajime,” said Oikawa. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

The call ended, Iwaizumi flagged down a taxi as he hissed a brief explanation to Kindaichi, and then they were on their way.

It was a seven minute drive from the club to Adachi’s residence.

It was possibly the longest seven minutes of Iwaizumi’s life.

His body was a live wire, buzzing with nervous energy. His fingers itched from inaction and the gun he’d borrowed from Kindaichi burned into his lower back, where he’d tucked it into the waistband of his pants and concealed it with his jacket.

He hadn’t thought he would ever carry a gun again, especially not in the name of Seijoh.

They stepped out of the taxi and it drove away, leaving them standing on the curb, looking up at the two-story residence. 

This was on the outskirts of the city. Tokyo was never really quiet, but the stillness of the night air was ominous. 

Iwaizumi and Kindaichi stepped toward the front door as one. Only when they were somewhat shielded by the structure did they draw their guns. Iwaizumi held his close to his chest, the grip a comfortable weight against his palm. He took a deep breath, counted the rapid beats of his heart, and then breathed out slowly. “You ready?”

Kindaichi nodded. He shifted back a half-step, giving Iwaizumi silent permission to take the lead. 

Iwaizumi reached out and pushed the door.

It swung inward easily. It was unlocked.

That wasn’t a good sign.

Iwaizumi slipped through the doorway quickly, pressing himself against the wall and sweeping the inside of the room with the barrel of his gun. 

There was nothing there, no shooter and no victims.

An uneasy feeling crawled up his spine.

Kindaichi slipped in after him, sticking close to Iwaizumi’s left. Together they moved deeper into the home, their footsteps a quiet shuffle. 

Iwaizumi listened for any clues that someone else was inside the house, but it sounded vacant. There was no creak of floorboards, no scuffle of motion, no hushed voices. They cleared the first floor and approached the staircase.

Iwaizumi wanted to think that maybe the tip had been false. There was no shooting here. The family was just out for the night and had forgotten to lock the door. No trespassers had been here. Everything was fine.

He paused with one foot on the bottom step. An alarm was ringing in his head, so loudly that he was surprised he could still hear the harsh rush of his own breath. He looked back at Kindaichi, who was wide-eyed and a little too pale. Despite his apparent fear, Kindaichi adjusted his grip on his gun, nodded, and followed Iwaizumi up the stairs without hesitation.

When they emerged onto the landing, it became quite clear that Oikawa’s call had not been a false alarm.

Iwaizumi had seen a lot of things during his time as an officer. He’d seen the gory aftermath of murders more times than he cared to recall. When he’d gone undercover with Seijoh the frequency had been reduced, but he’d still witnessed things that often kept him awake at night.

Of all of the nightmare material he’d gathered over the years, this was going to rank at the top of the list.

He’d seen the pictures from Sawamura and Ushijima.

They didn’t depict the true horror of the scene.

Bodies were scattered like discarded bags of trash. They littered the floor in a neat circle, one in the direct center, as with the other killings. There was a sluggishly growing halo of blood around each of them, spreading from the matching gunshot wounds in the backs of their skulls. 

To Iwaizumi’s left, Kindaichi made a soft gagging sound.

Iwaizumi was fighting a similar swell of nausea.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, keeping his voice low. “They might still be here. We need to clear this floor, too.”

He tore his eyes away from the grisly scene to look at Kindaichi. 

His face had been pale already, but now the pallor was chalky and sickly. His gun shook a little in his grip, but he tightened long fingers around it and swallowed. His brows pulled together and he nodded at Iwaizumi once.

Kindaichi would hold himself together. Iwaizumi had faith in him.

He was more worried about himself.

He scanned the scene one last time, confirming that the killer wasn’t lurking in plain sight. He tried not to notice that two of the victims appeared to be children no older than twelve. 

But he did notice, and fury began to quell the nausea.

He made a gesture in the air, indicating the direction of their search. He started forward, but before he’d taken a full step there was a muted thump from somewhere to their left.

Iwaizumi froze and held his breath. 

There was only silence.

He looked to Kindaichi, whose wide eyes indicated he’d heard the sound, too.

Iwaizumi switched his direction and moved toward the open door. He approached slowly, gun held level in front of him. His heartbeat was a rapid thrum in his ears. 

He hadn’t shot anyone in a long time, and he didn’t want to do it again.

He would, though. Not just because Oikawa had told him to, but because whoever had killed these people deserved to die.

As a police officer, he’d been unable to take justice into his own hands. There were processes, policies, and procedures.

With Seijoh, he had to worry about none of that.

He slipped through the open doorway with Kindaichi on his heels. The bedroom beyond appeared to be in perfect order. The bed was neatly made and the desk was expertly organized. The closet door stood open and Iwaizumi waved Kindaichi toward it. He peered inside and then shook his head at Iwaizumi.

The only thing out of place was a small pile of clothes that had spilled from a tall, woven laundry basket. 

A tall, woven laundry basket that gave a small fidget.

He locked eyes with Kindaichi and they stepped toward it together, guns at the ready. Iwaizumi wouldn’t have fit inside the basket, and Kindaichi definitely wouldn’t have, but a smaller individual would probably be able to squeeze their way inside, especially in a desperate situation. 

Iwaizumi’s fingers twitched toward the trigger but he didn’t let himself touch it; not yet. Years of training kept him at bay.

He exchanged a silent look with Kindaichi, then slammed a kick into the side of the laundry basket. 

It toppled to the floor with a thud and a panicked squeak. The lid bounced away, a spill of laundry giving way to the top of a blonde head.

“Pl-pl-please don’t hurt me.” The voice was high-pitched, distinctly feminine. The head ducked lower, trying to burrow deeper. “Please don’t, pl-please, _please_.”

“Get out,” said Iwaizumi. The words came loud and clipped. “ _Now_.”

There was a muffled sob, a shaky inhale, and then slowly the girl emerged. Her hands dug their way out first, pushing handfuls of laundry aside. She pawed at the floor as she crawled out of the basket, her trembling limbs barely supporting her weight.

The girl was so small that Iwaizumi thought she was a child until she looked up at them, her face reflecting utter terror. She was perhaps twenty, maybe less. She shook so badly that she seemed to be in a state of constant vibration, her eyes swollen and magnified by a sheen of tears. 

Iwaizumi had learned to never underestimate anyone, no matter the circumstances, but he couldn’t find it in him to suspect that this trembling girl was a killer.

“Please,” she said through pale, quivering lips. “Pl-please don’t hurt me.”

“We’re not here to hurt you,” said Iwaizumi. 

The reassurance didn’t convince her. She flinched away from his voice and curled into herself. 

Iwaizumi realized he was still holding a gun in the girl’s face. He tucked the pistol into his waistband, against the small of his back, and gave Kindaichi a look. Then he knelt into the floor beside the girl, who shrank away from him.

“Did you see who did this?” said Iwaizumi. He lowered his voice in an attempt to sound comforting, but he doubted anything could comfort this girl when her entire family had just been murdered. 

Her terror was so overwhelming that Iwaizumi thought she wouldn’t be able to answer.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

“Are you going to hurt me?” she whispered. Another tear dripped from her lashes, following the track that already traced the soft planes of her face.

“No,” said Iwaizumi. “We want to find the person who did this. We want to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The girl blinked at him and then craned her head back to look at Kindaichi. He’d lowered his gun to his side.

“Please,” said Iwaizumi in a low murmur. “They’ve done this before. Did you see where they went? Are they still here?”

She looked back to Iwaizumi and pulled her knees into her chest, looping her arms around them. She looked like she was trying to hold herself together. 

“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice was choked. “I just saw him for a second. I peeked out and he was- he was-”

The sob ripped through the room like a gunshot. The girl collapsed in on herself, her face buried in her knees, shaking like a leaf in a windstorm.

Iwaizumi reached out automatically, but she made a startled sound and pulled away when he touched her shoulder.

The girl reminded him of the victims he’d tried to comfort back when he worked for the police department. They’d been in similar states of distress, though it was rare that anyone’s experiences had been quite this traumatizing.

He was so focused on her that he lost a little awareness of his surroundings. He didn’t hear the distant sound of the front door.

“Shh,” he said. “I promise we won’t hurt you. We’re just after the bad guy, alright? Can you tell me what he looked like?”

She shivered, but this time she didn’t pull away when he placed a gentle hand on her knee. She peered up through a mess of blonde hair, bright eyes dulled by tears and panic. “I d-didn’t see him that well. Only a little. J-just for a second.”

“Tell me what you remember,” said Iwaizumi softly. “Anything will help. Please.”

She held his eyes, her breaths coming a little bit steadier in the presence of his reassurance.

Iwaizumi didn’t hear the shuffle of footsteps on the stairs, nor did Kindaichi.

“He… he was tall,” she whispered. Her eyes darted around the room, as if afraid he would pop out of thin air as she spoke of him. She ducked her head down again, pressing her forehead against her knees and, consequently, against Iwaizumi’s hand. “He was tall and he had a big gun, but it… it wasn’t loud. It was quiet, and… and they couldn’t even scream, because he… he…”

A sob slipped through her teeth and then her voice was lost to thick, heavy cries that shook her entire body. 

“Shh,” said Iwaizumi. He stroked her hair instead, trying to soothe her enough to collect a little more information. “It’s okay. You’re okay. No one is going to hurt you, alright?”

Her sobs didn’t abate. Iwaizumi wondered if he should wait it out or if it would be best to get her out of that house so she could calm down.

He didn’t get the chance to decide.

“Tokyo police! Put your hands where I can see them!”

The raised voice filled the room like thunder. The girl flinched away, scurrying until her back was against the wall. Kindaichi whirled toward the sound automatically, gun raised. 

Iwaizumi didn’t move. He wasn’t entirely sure he was capable of moving.

Four officers stood just inside the doorway, equipped with department-issued assault rifles that put Kindaichi’s 9mm to shame. 

“Put the gun down!” shouted one of the officers, leveling the sights of his rifle at Kindaichi. “ _Now_!”

The muscles in Kindaichi’s arm twitched, but he didn’t let go of the gun.

“Kindaichi,” said Iwaizumi quietly. “Drop it. He’s not kidding.”

Kindaichi slid him sideways look. On the surface he seemed composed, but Iwaizumi saw the flash of panic in his eyes.

They’d just been caught at a fresh crime scene where six people had been brutally murdered, and both of them were armed.

This didn’t look good for them.

Kindaichi’s grip slackened. He crouched low enough to put the gun on the floor and stood upright again, arms raised.

“You too,” snapped one of the officers. Iwaizumi recognized the voice, and hot shame licked along his spine. “Hands up.” 

Iwaizumi had never thought the officers he’d once worked with would ever see him like this.

He rose slowly, hands held at shoulder level. The borrowed gun was warm against his back. He wondered how many years he was going to serve in prison for illegal possession of a firearm.

The officers stepped forward in unison. Two of them moved to detain Kindaichi, and the other two swooped in on Iwaizumi. The familiar one seized his wrists and wrenched them behind his back, slapping metal cuffs onto his wrists and notching them a little too tightly.

Iwaizumi certainly thought he’d never be on the receiving end of this.

“Captain said to watch out for you,” said Tanaka. There was a soft click as he locked the cuffs. “He thought you’d just be snooping around, though. He never thought you’d actually be involved in all this shit. What happened to you, Iwaizumi?”

“I guess you won’t believe me if I say I didn’t do anything,” said Iwaizumi. He winced as Tanaka shoved him into the wall and started patting him down. 

“Save it for Captain Sawamura,” said Tanaka. He felt down Iwaizumi’s chest and beneath his arms, searching for weapons.

“It’s tucked in my pants,” said Iwaizumi, saving him the trouble. “In the back.”

Tanaka’s hands stalled. Then he pushed up the back of Iwaizumi’s jacket and plucked out the gun. 

“You know this alone is a felony charge.”

“Yeah.”

“What _happened_ to you? Those people out there, Iwaizumi. Those _kids_ …”

“I didn’t do any of that, Tanaka. You know me.”

The way his face was pressed into the wall, the only thing he could see was the blonde girl, being spoken to in a low voice by one of the officers. She was still trembling, but the small, choked words that she forced through her lips seemed to be calmer. 

The girl had seen the killer. She’d seen him, and Iwaizumi had missed his chance.

“I thought I did,” said Tanaka flatly. He yanked at Iwaizumi’s arm, spinning him around. The cuffs bit into his wrists. “Let’s go, Iwaizumi. You’re under arrest.” 

  
  
  
  
  


*********

**TWO YEARS AGO**

*********

 

 

 

Iwaizumi had rarely seen Oikawa lose his temper, but of those few occasions, this one was the most notable.

Clearly shooting one of his men was an easy way to set him off.

“I don’t fucking _care_!” Oikawa shouted. He held his phone so tightly that Iwaizumi thought it might shatter. “They started this, Kuroo! They came after _me_!”

There was a pause. Oikawa’s breath was loud in the still office, hot with anger. Iwaizumi sat in front of Oikawa’s desk, Hanamaki beside him. Matsukawa was being tended to by Mizoguchi, a physician that had been on the Seijoh payroll for years. 

Mizoguchi had said that there may be some hearing loss, but aside from that, there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.

Except for the missing half of Matsukawa’s ear, of course.

“That’s the same fucking thing!” said Oikawa. He slammed his fist onto the desk. Iwaizumi flinched. “If the bastard goes after my men then he’s going after me. I’ll fucking _destroy_ them.”

Hanamaki shifted as his phone buzzed. He checked the screen and his mouth gave a pitiful twitch. Iwaizumi guessed Matsukawa had sent him a text, probably a stupid joke about his injury.

Matsukawa was the calmest of them all, and he was the one who’d been shot.

“I don’t care what Nekoma does,” snapped Oikawa. “Fukurodani is done. They fired on my men in the middle of the street. They’re begging the police to interfere. I’m putting a stop to them before we all go down for their stupidity. You can either back me up or stay out of my way.”

He ended the call and slammed the phone onto the desk. He closed his eyes and took a few breaths, clearly trying to calm himself down. 

“Makki,” he said. His voice had cooled a little, but it was still dangerous. “Go check on Mattsun.”

Hanamaki didn’t need to be told twice. He was out of his seat and through the door in two seconds flat. 

Another minute passed and Oikawa finally opened his eyes. Iwaizumi had always thought Oikawa’s eyes were like dark gemstones, but now they were like steel.

“Fukurodani has put out a hit for you,” said Oikawa. The words simmered like they were on the verge of boiling over. “Whoever kills you will earn a substantial reward.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach plummeted. He’d always known that becoming a target because of his status as a police officer was a possibility. He’d never thought he would become a target because of yakuza affiliation. 

“You won’t have to worry about it for long,” said Oikawa, “because I’m going to kill everyone who had anything to do with this.”

“Oikawa, I don’t think-”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You could have _died_ , Hajime. Do you understand that?”

He did understand. He understood quite well. 

“This is war,” said Oikawa. He pushed himself to his feet and started pacing, trying to burn off some of his aggressive energy. “They’ve started a fucking war and I’m going to be the one who finishes it.”

“I know you’re mad,” said Iwaizumi, though it was an understatement, “but you’re overreacting.”

Oikawa’s pacing stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Iwaizumi, and his face was stone. “Overreacting?” The stone cracked, and righteous anger was visible beneath. “I’m _overreacting?_ ”

Oikawa stalked closer, and the heat in his eyes was lethal. Iwaizumi scrambled to his feet just quickly enough for Oikawa to seize him by the front of his shirt and slam him into the wall. 

Iwaizumi knew what Oikawa was capable of when he was angry. He’d seen it firsthand. He should have been terrified, but there wasn’t a flicker of fear in his twisting thoughts; at least, not for himself.

“They’re trying to kill you, Hajime!” Oikawa shouted into his face. “They almost killed Mattsun just because he was with you! How the fuck can you call this an overreaction?”

“Because you know what will happen if you take this too far!” Iwaizumi’s own voice rose. He knew he needed to stay calm, but he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed at the front of Oikawa’s shirt, his lip curling into a half-snarl. “You already told me what happens when the syndicates fight. People will die. Civilians will die. Some of your men will die. You can’t declare all-out war against Fukurodani because of me.”

“I can,” growled Oikawa, “and I fucking will.”

“If people die-”

“Then they fucking die!” shouted Oikawa. “I don’t care, Hajime! I don’t care who dies, as long as it’s not you!” He released Iwaizumi’s shirt and turned away. He ran a rough hand through his hair, setting it to disarray. With his back still turned, Oikawa said, “I’ll do whatever I have to do. If I have to make sacrifices, that’s fine. But they’re not getting by with this. They went too far.”

“You can’t do this on my behalf,” said Iwaizumi. “I’m the one who fucked up. Let me handle my own mistakes.”

“Your mistakes are my mistakes,” said Oikawa. “That’s part of being yakuza.”

“That’s stupid,” said Iwaizumi. He took a step away from the wall. Oikawa still wasn’t looking at him. “No one else is going to pay for something I did. I lost my temper with Kimura. I knew better. It just slipped, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking you wanted to defend your _Kumicho_ ,” said Oikawa. 

“No, I wasn’t,” said Iwaizumi. “You think I was pissed because you’re my boss? I don’t give a fuck about that. I was pissed because what he said wasn’t true. And because he said it about my _friend_.”

Oikawa went so still that he appeared to have stopped breathing. Slowly, he turned back toward Iwaizumi, wearing a blank mask. “You think we’re friends?”

Tension bubbled in Iwaizumi’s gut. He couldn’t tell what Oikawa was thinking.

Fukurodani might not have to worry about killing him. Oikawa may do it for them.

He didn’t know what sort of answer to offer, so he said, “Aren’t we?”

Oikawa looked at him so long that it made him uncomfortable. There was something in his eyes, something that Iwaizumi couldn’t identify.

Slowly, Oikawa reached out and pressed his palm against the side of Iwaizumi’s face. The touch sent heat scorching through Iwaizumi’s blood, burning in his cheek and rushing down his spine. His chest felt tight. He didn’t know if he wanted to lean into the touch or pull away.

He should have pulled away.

“Of course we are,” said Oikawa. His voice was completely unlike his anger of a moment before. “We’re friends. You mean a lot to me, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi swallowed. 

Oikawa’s stare lingered for a minute longer. Then he dropped his hand and turned away again. “Which is exactly why I’m going to burn Fukurodani to the ground.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update~

A couple of months ago, Sawamura had taken Iwaizumi down to the holding cells to see Kyoutani.

Now Iwaizumi was trapped behind the same bars, directly across from Kyoutani, who had burst into bitter laughter when he’d seen Iwaizumi shoved into a cell.

Kindaichi was across from him too, directly beside Kyoutani, who had sobered a little when he’d seen that Kindaichi had been apprehended as well.

There was a clock at the end of the corridor, but Iwaizumi couldn’t see it from his cell. He could only hear the distant ticking.

By his estimation, he’d been there for three hours. No one had spoken to them. No one had even descended stairs since they’d arrived.

In the cells across from him, Kyoutani hissed something to Kindaichi, who stood with his forehead pressed against the bars between their cells.

Even if Iwaizumi had tried to decipher the hushed words, he could have picked out only one or two at best. He wasn’t trying. He had no interest in their conversation. There were very few things that he was actually interested in.

One of them was that he was going to jail.

Another was that he’d never find out who was behind the killings.

The last was that Oikawa would be furious when he discovered that three of his Seijoh members had been taken from him in one fell swoop.

As he considered that, he realized that he was mentally referring to himself as a member of Seijoh.

At that point he closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking altogether.

The sound of a door echoed down from the peak of the stairs. Kyoutani and Kindaichi went silent. They migrated to the front of their cells, watching the end of the hallway.

Iwaizumi didn’t move from his seat on the flat, scratchy cot. His head was in his hands and he didn’t look up even when the scuff of footsteps stalled outside his cell.

“Iwaizumi.”

He wasn’t surprised to hear Sawamura’s voice. He’d been expecting him a lot sooner.

Despite their differences, he was still ashamed for Sawamura to see him like this. The feeling of disgrace was like bile in the back of his throat, hot and bitter.

“Stop sulking,” said Sawamura. His voice was the crack of a whip. “Get up. You’re being released.”

Iwaizumi’s head came up so fast that the bars in front of his eyes swam. He blinked and focused on Sawamura, who was visibly fuming.

“What?”

“You heard me. You too, Kindaichi,” he snapped over his shoulder. 

Kindaichi looked like he’d been slapped through the face. “What?”

Sawamura’s jaw twitched as he ground his teeth together. He sorted through the ring of keys on his duty belt and unlocked the door of Iwaizumi’s cell. He moved the few steps over to Kindaichi’s to do the same, and Iwaizumi slowly stepped into the hallway.

Kyoutani watched the process with narrowed eyes, his lip peeled back just enough to show his teeth. His hands were clutched around the bars, and Iwaizumi couldn’t stop himself from glancing at those mutilated fingers again.

Sawamura pulled open the second door, and Kindaichi stepped through. He watched Sawamura carefully, as if expecting to be shoved back inside. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Sawamura said. He glared up at Kindaichi, unruffled by his impressive height. “Get the hell out of here.”

“How?” said Iwaizumi. It wasn’t descriptive, but it was the only word he could manage.

Sawamura knew what he meant. “Apparently,” he said through his teeth, “some hotshot lawyer swooped in on the chief fifteen minutes after you got arrested. I don’t know how he did it. I just know that if the orders hadn’t come from the chief himself, I would never let either of you out.”

“We didn’t kill them, Sawamura,” said Iwaizumi. “You don’t want to admit it, but you know it. Hell, I was in Kyoto for the first two sets of murders. You know I wasn’t involved in those.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t jump right in when you got here,” said Sawamura. “Get out, Iwaizumi. Before I lose my temper.”

Iwaizumi looked to Kindaichi, who seemed utterly bewildered. Then his eyes slid to Kyoutani, who watched them with feral intensity. 

“What about Kyoutani?” said Iwaizumi.

“He wasn’t part of the deal,” said Sawamura, “and I’ll die before I let that animal back out on the streets.”

Kyoutani grinned at him, and it was so sharp and feral that Iwaizumi suppressed a shiver. 

He headed for the stairs, and Kindaichi's footsteps followed. He pushed through the door at the top, walked down the winding hallway that led to the front of the building, and still expected to be pulled back at any moment.

He looked over his shoulder. Sawamura was tailing them at a safe distance, his face lined with anger.

“What’s happening?” whispered Iwaizumi. “Do you know why they’re releasing us?”

Kindaichi shook his head. “I have no idea. I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

They passed by a row of rooms walled by clear glass. Through the panes, Iwaizumi caught sight of the blonde girl from the crime scene. She was curled up in a chair like a frightened cat, picking apart a tissue with nervous fingers. Across the table from her was Sergeant Shimizu, dressed in plainclothes. It looked like she was doing more comforting than questioning. 

As they passed by, Shimizu looked up and met Iwaizumi’s eyes. Hers were as piercing as always, and Iwaizumi found himself looking away.

A bubble of voices floated to them from further along. A pair of officers rounded the corner, both of them familiar. Whatever conversation they carried drifted off as they noticed Iwaizumi and Kindaichi.

Iwaizumi’s thoughts twisted, then lurched into motion. He tugged at Kindaichi’s sleeve and went up on his toes to hiss in his ear, “Push me into them.”

Kindaichi pulled away from him. “What?”

Iwaizumi shushed him and yanked him down again. The officers were drawing closer. “Act like I said something to piss you off and shove me. Just do it.”

“What?” repeated Kindaichi, more sharply. “ _What_ did you just say to me?”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to respond, but Kindaichi was already moving. He slammed his hands into Iwaizumi’s chest and shoved him across the hall, directly into the pair of officers passing by.

Iwaizumi stumbled into the shorter of the two, and there was a sharp yelp in his ear. He tripped over his own feet and latched onto the officer to keep himself upright, his hand dipping briefly into the pocket of his uniform.

“Shit,” mumbled Iwaizumi. He staggered a little more before he righted himself, slipping his prize out of sight. “Sorry, Hinata.”

The officer looked taken aback, but his partner was not impressed. He pushed Hinata back a step and moved forward. “Step back, Iwaizumi,” said Kageyama. His eyes were sharp, darting between Iwaizumi and Kindaichi. 

“Sorry, sorry,” said Iwaizumi, raising his hands in a show of apology. 

Sawamura rushed forward and reached for Kindaichi, but Iwaizumi moved between them. 

“Leave him be, captain,” said Iwaizumi. “That was my fault. I should watch my mouth.”

Sawamura’s glare could have melted steel. “Get the fuck out of my station.” The heat of his fury was building, and Iwaizumi didn't want to see it peak. He started forward again, at a quicker pace. 

When they reached the lobby of the police station, he expected to be given a bag of his belongings and sent on his way. 

The paper bag that held his cell phone and his wallet was there, but he hadn’t expected it to be in the hands of Oikawa Tooru.

Oikawa leaned against the front desk as if he owned the place. He was grinning at Officer Sugawara, who looked wholly unimpressed. 

When they stepped through, Oikawa blinked up at them with a smile. 

Beneath it, Iwaizumi saw weariness and strain, and a nearly buried anger that bled through the cracks in Oikawa's mask.

“Ah, there you are!” said Oikawa. “Took you long enough, Dai-chan. I thought you’d decided to keep them for good.”

Sawamura gave him a scalding stare. Then he turned and disappeared back into the hallway. 

“Come along, then,” said Oikawa brightly, ushering them toward the door. “The car is running. We don’t want to burn too much gasoline. Global warming is an issue, right, Suga-chan?”

Sugawara raised a brow at him but said nothing.

Iwaizumi followed Oikawa outside, where his car was waiting. They slid into the large backseat, Iwaizumi sandwiched between Oikawa and Kindaichi. As soon as the door shut and the tires started rolling, Oikawa’s peppy exterior crumbled.

He closed his eyes and seemed to shrink, hunching over and pressing his palms into his eyes. 

“Fuck,” he said. The word was low, clipped. “Fuck. _Fuck_. I cannot believe that worked. I hate being in anyone's debt, but I'm going to owe Kuroo for the rest of my life.”

“Kuroo?”

Oikawa nodded without looking at him. “He made a deal with the chief of police. I don’t even know what he promised him. All I know is that it will take us years to pay him back.”

Kuroo was the hotshot lawyer Sawamura had mentioned. Iwaizumi shouldn’t have been surprised.

“I’m sorry,” said Iwaizumi. He’d meant to say it as a cursory sentiment, but it came out genuine. 

Oikawa peered up at him. “For what? I’m the one who sent you out there. This one is on me.” He sighed, deeply, then leaned forward to peer past Iwaizumi. “You okay, Yuu-chan?”

“Yeah,” said Kindaichi. He stared out the window, his face blank. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Oikawa sat back in his seat and exhaled. He reached for Iwaizumi’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. Iwaizumi assumed it was a gesture of comfort, but Oikawa didn’t let go.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Hajime,” Oikawa mumbled. “If something had happened to you there I don’t know if I’d have ever forgiven myself.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Iwaizumi. He tried not to think about the last time he’d held Oikawa’s hand, two years before, when it had been slick with blood. “I make my own decisions. If the charges had stuck it would’ve been my own fault.”

Oikawa smiled. It was weary, and a little forced. “That’s not how this works, Hajime. You know that.”

Iwaizumi did know. He knew that because Oikawa was the boss, he was responsible for everyone. If someone under his direct supervision offended another syndicate, it reflected back on Oikawa. If one of his guys got caught breaking the law and brought the police down on the rest of them, ultimately that came back to Oikawa.

It was a lot of responsibility, and Oikawa had always shouldered it willingly. He acted as if it wasn’t a strain, but Iwaizumi had witnessed the toll it had taken on him. 

That had been two years ago. He couldn’t imagine how much more stress Oikawa was dealing with now.

He squeezed Oikawa’s hand, gently, and received a more genuine smile. 

It made his chest ache, and he pretended not to notice. 

  
  
  
  
  


*********

**TWO YEARS AGO**

*********

 

 

 

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Oikawa,” said Kuroo. He lounged back in his chair and studied the pair of them with a raised brow. “You got yourself into this mess.”

“That is not true,” said Oikawa sharply. “Fukurodani made the first move. You’re supposed to be on my side here.”

They were on the fourth floor office of Kuroo’s law firm, which was also the clandestine site of his yakuza business. Oikawa and Iwaizumi faced Kuroo at his desk, while Bokuto hovered near the door.

“I know something needs to be done about them,” said Kuroo. “We already discussed that with Ushijima, too. This isn’t the same thing. You’re just trying to throw us into all-out war because of your stupid pride.”

“This has nothing to do with my pride,” said Oikawa. He spoke calmly, but Iwaizumi knew his composure was slipping. “They attacked Hajime. They made it personal. I can’t let them get away with that.”

“Sounds like pride to me.”

“I told you to let it go,” said Iwaizumi, folding his arms. “They’re just after me. Don’t let it escalate.”

Oikawa turned on him, clearly ready to snap, but Kuroo spoke up.

“Well at least one of you has some sense,” he said, nodding to Iwaizumi. “You’re blowing this out of proportion, Oikawa. This isn’t the first time someone has put out a hit on one of your guys.”

“It’s different,” Oikawa insisted.

“Why?”

Oikawa didn’t answer. 

“I talked to their boss this morning,” said Kuroo. “He’s willing to meet with you and talk about this. You can settle it. Have Hajime apologize and ask what he can do to fix it. I’m sure if you suggested a _yubitsume_ he would-”

“No,” said Oikawa, the denial unyielding. “Hajime is not doing that.”

Iwaizumi wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t fancy losing part of his finger. He didn’t want to turn out like Kyoutani. 

“What if it’s that or death?” said Kuroo. “I think it sounds pretty fair.”

“It’s not fair. None of this is fair. I’m going to destroy all of them.”

“No, you’re not,” said Iwaizumi. 

“Listen to your advisor here,” said Kuroo. “You’ve finally gotten one who makes sense. He’s much more reasonable than Hanamaki and Matsukawa. I don’t know why you keep those two idiots so close.”

Oikawa’s face didn’t change, but Iwaizumi felt the irritation rolling off of him like desert heat. “Stop questioning my leadership, Kuroo. I know what I’m doing.”

Kuroo held his hands up, palms out. “I’m not questioning you, alright? I just want you to make the best decision. Of course I’ll choose your side if I have to, but I’d rather not have to. I don’t want to lose any men to this little spat.”

“This would solve the Fukurodani problem, though. If we get rid of them, the human trafficking will stop.”

“This isn’t how we should solve that. We’ll go about it a different way.”

“How, then?” 

Kuroo sighed. “I haven’t quite figured that out. I’m working on it.”

“That’s not good enough.” Oikawa rose with a huff, and Iwaizumi mimicked him. “I’ll take care of this myself. I’ll let you know when Fukurodani has fallen.”

“Just think about it, Oikawa,” said Kuroo. His forehead creased with the weight of his words. “Meet with him. Don’t take this too far or you’re going to get hurt.”

“He’s the one who will get hurt,” said Oikawa, the threat sliding between his teeth. He turned on his heel and started toward the door. Bokuto sidled away to give him access. “I’m not making a deal with him, Kuroo. He’s not worth my time.”

Even as Iwaizumi stepped through the doorway, on the heels of Oikawa’s anger, he heard Kuroo’s sigh of sheer exasperation.

Kuroo was being more than reasonable. 

If only Oikawa would listen.

They didn’t speak until they were in Oikawa’s car, halfway back to Seijoh. Iwaizumi had been staring out the window blindly, the monotonous buildings a gray blur to his unfocused eyes.

He snapped back to attention when he felt Oikawa shift slightly, their knees brushing.

“What do you think, Hajime?” he asked in a low murmur. “Am I being unreasonable?”

“Yes,” said Iwaizumi bluntly, “you are.”

Oikawa sighed and let his head fall back against the cushioned seat. “I can’t grovel at Fukurodani’s feet and ask for clemency. It would ruin Seijoh’s reputation.”

“Then don’t grovel. Just go talk to them.”

“They’ll want something in return.”

“Then give it to them.”

Iwaizumi looked out the window again, but he was hyperaware of Oikawa’s eyes on him.

“You don’t understand,” said Oikawa quietly. “They’ll want something I’m not willing to give.” Iwaizumi felt a gentle touch against the back of his hand. Oikawa’s fingers lighted on top of his and squeezed gently. “I can make things right between our syndicates, but they’ll want you punished for hitting Kimura. I won’t let them.”

“Why?” said Iwaizumi. He genuinely didn’t understand Oikawa’s reluctance. As Kuroo had said, if approached the right way, Fukurodani may not even demand his death. A _yubitsume_ was a big sacrifice for Iwaizumi, but it should mean nothing to Oikawa.

Oikawa’s smile was bitter. “I thought you listened when I talk to you, Hajime.”

“What?”

“I told you yesterday.” Oikawa’s hand was still on top of Iwaizumi’s, unnerving yet comforting. “You mean a lot to me.”

“So does everyone else,” said Iwaizumi. “Seijoh is your family. You’ve told me that. I still don’t know why that’s stopping you. If Kyoutani did this, you would-”

“You’re not Kyoutani,” said Oikawa. He held Iwaizumi’s gaze, somber. “You’re not any of the others. If they’d done this, it would be a lot simpler.”

He slouched a little, and his hand fell away from Iwaizumi’s. Iwaizumi fought the urge to reach out and take it back.

“What’s the difference?” said Iwaizumi. He thought about the night before, when Oikawa had touched his face, when he’d called them friends, when Iwaizumi’s chest had been so tight he could barely breathe.

Iwaizumi knew what he felt for Oikawa. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew all too well.

But entertaining the idea of Oikawa feeling the same way was ridiculous. He refused to consider it.

Oikawa shifted. His knee again touched Iwaizumi’s, but this time it stayed there. “You know the difference, Hajime,” he said. He stole a glance at Iwaizumi, eyes dark and serious. Then he looked out the window. 

He said nothing else, and Iwaizumi didn’t push. He refused to make any assumptions, because he could be wrong. Oikawa appreciated him as a reliable member of Seijoh and a good advisor. That was all. He wouldn't let himself hope for anything more.

When they arrived at Aoba Johsai, Oikawa squeezed Iwaizumi’s knee lightly before stepping out of the car.

Iwaizumi was a little too warm as he followed.


	13. Chapter 13

The relief of being released from police custody didn’t last long.

Iwaizumi stood in the hallway outside of Oikawa’s office, leaning against the wall, waiting with a swelling sense of dread.

Kindaichi had requested a private conversation with Oikawa as soon as they’d arrived back at Aoba Johsai, and Iwaizumi had a sinking feeling he knew what that conversation was about. That suspicion was only strengthened when Kindaichi stepped into the hallway twenty minutes later, unable to meet his eyes.

“The boss wants to talk to you,” said Kindaichi, studying the floor. He pushed his hands into his pockets and added, more quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Iwaizumi reached out to lightly grip Kindaichi’s shoulder as he stepped past. “It’s fine,” he said. He found that he really meant it. “No worries, alright? Go get some rest. It’s been a long night.”

Kindaichi nodded, but if anything, he looked even guiltier.

Iwaizumi stepped into Oikawa’s office and shut the door. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, before he looked up.

Oikawa leaned against the front of his desk, arms folded, watching Iwaizumi with a predatory smile that was so forced that it looked painful. 

That wasn’t good. It meant Oikawa wasn’t calm enough to sit down.

Iwaizumi swallowed past the lump in his throat. He didn’t move closer. He just stood by the door, waiting.

“What is it, Iwa-chan?” said Oikawa, his voice falsely sweet. “You look a little worried. Almost like you’ve done something wrong.”

Oikawa was hiding his anger surprisingly well, considering what Kindaichi must have told him.

Iwaizumi didn’t think that composure would last.

“I can explain,” said Iwaizumi.

Oikawa laughed. It was harsh and bitter and made Iwaizumi cringe.

“Is that so?” said Oikawa. He pushed away from the desk and approached, his steps slow and sinuous. Iwaizumi felt a pressing urge to retreat.

Oikawa stopped a few paces away, observing him with a tilt of his head.

“Then please explain, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa. “Please explain why you didn’t tell me where Kyoutani was, even though you knew before you got here. Please explain why you asked me about him as if you were genuinely concerned. Please explain why you came here and conned me into trusting you and then turned around and stabbed me in my fucking back _again_.” His voice dropped into something cold, as chilling as the dark depths of the ocean. “Please explain why I shouldn’t just cut your throat right here.”

He wasn’t kidding, and Iwaizumi knew it.

There was nothing that made Oikawa more furious than a traitor. Iwaizumi keeping information about Kyoutani to himself was only omission, but it was betrayal all the same. That was why he’d told Oikawa about Shimizu. He'd known if he didn’t, something like this would happen.

Oikawa’s glare sharpened like a honed blade, and Iwaizumi’s mouth was full of sand.

“I’m waiting,” said Oikawa, his voice the venomous hiss of an adder. 

“If I’d told you,” said Iwaizumi, “you would have tried to go after him.”

“He’s part of Seijoh. Of course I would have gone after him. Kyoutani has been missing for _months_ , Iwa-chan. He wasn’t in the prison system. I thought he was dead. _Yahaba_ thought he was dead. Have you seen Yahaba lately?” Oikawa’s glare gave way to a bitter grin. “Actually, I won’t kill you. I think I’ll let Yahaba do it for me.”

Iwaizumi fought a shudder. Kyoutani was the best of them for torture, but Yahaba also had a penchant for it. Kyoutani had taught him well.

“Listen to me,” said Iwaizumi. “It was for the best. They already have enough stacked up against him to send him to prison. They collected evidence from that last job he failed. Even with Kuroo on your side, there’s nothing that can be done. Sawamura’s determined to put him away. If I’d told you, you would’ve barged in there and done something stupid and gotten yourself in trouble, too.”

Oikawa’s face didn’t change, but the temperature around them dropped several degrees. “You’re saying you did this for my own good.”

“I was trying to keep you out of it. There’s nothing you can do and I know you would’ve tried anyway. With the way Sawamura is gunning for you, it would’ve been a catastrophe.”

“You were trying to protect me.”

“Yes,” said Iwaizumi. “I was trying to protect you.”

Oikawa’s face didn’t change. In the handful of seconds that ticked by, his expression remained the same. When he lunged forward and slammed Iwaizumi into the wall, he still looked composed. The only hint of his ire was the dangerous spark in his eyes.

Iwaizumi’s head bounced back against the wall, a crackle of pain lighting up his skull. Oikawa dug his fingers into the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt and held him there, pinned in place by deceptive strength.

“Don’t stand there,” spat Oikawa, “and lie to my fucking face.” He pulled on Iwaizumi’s shirt, yanking him a step forward, and then slammed him back again. 

This time Iwaizumi kept his head forward, but the impact cracked against his spine.

“I’m not lying to you,” said Iwaizumi. He clenched his teeth against the pain. He gripped Oikawa’s wrists, but didn’t try to pry his hands away. “It’s the truth. I didn’t want you to get thrown in there with him.”

“Do you think I’m too stupid to take care of myself? Do you really think I’d just stroll into the police station and demand that they let Kyoutani out?”

“I didn’t know,” said Iwaizumi. “I thought you’d be too mad to think straight.”

“After all that time together,” said Oikawa, “you still have such little faith in me.”

“That’s not what I-”

Oikawa gripped him harder, pulled him away, and slammed him back one more time. The impact made Iwaizumi’s entire back throb, and he knew it would bruise.

That was the least of his concerns.

“You’re digging your hole deeper, Iwa-chan,” said Oikawa. “You’re about to be buried in it.”

Iwaizumi kept his mouth shut. Oikawa glared down at him, using those bare few centimeters of height to his advantage. 

“I didn’t think I could get any angrier at you than I did when Kindaichi told me,” said Oikawa, “but I was wrong. I can’t believe you can just stand there and pretend you did this for me. Don’t look me in the eye and act like you care anything about me. You _never_ cared about me.”

Iwaizumi's indignation swelled, hot and bitter.

This wasn’t the time, but he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

He squeezed Oikawa’s wrists, too tightly, and pushed him a step back. “Don’t you fucking say that.” The words were biting, almost as harsh as Oikawa’s rage. “You know how I felt about you.”

“I thought I did,” said Oikawa. “I thought I knew a lot of things about you.”

“You did,” said Iwaizumi. “You still do. You know me, Oikawa. You know I wouldn’t keep something like this from you out of spite.”

“I also thought you wouldn’t leave me. I was wrong about that, too.”

Iwaizumi flinched like he’d been slapped. His hands slipped away from Oikawa’s wrists and Oikawa let his fingers fall away. They stood facing each other, hands at their sides, anger and raw emotion crackling between them like bitter electricity.

“I’m sorry,” said Iwaizumi. The apology sounded stronger than he felt. “I’m sorry about Kyoutani. I’m sorry about… about before. About leaving.”

“I trusted you,” said Oikawa. His voice was quieter now, but no less deadly. “I trusted you with _everything_.”

He wasn’t talking about Kyoutani anymore. He wasn’t talking about anything that had happened for the past two years.

It had been a long time, but the wounds still felt raw.

“I know,” said Iwaizumi. 

“Of everyone in Seijoh,” said Oikawa, “I trusted you the most. More than Makki and Mattsun. More than Yahaba. More than _everyone_. I was right to trust you with my life, but not with anything else. You should’ve just let me die that night. It would’ve hurt less than waking up and finding you gone.”

“Oikawa, I-”

“Don’t.” The word was harsh, final. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m finished with this conversation and I’m finished with you. You’re dead to me.”

Iwaizumi’s blood hardened into ice. “Oikawa.”

“Get out.” Oikawa turned away, arms still hanging at his sides. His hands curled into fists. “Get the fuck out of here. I should kill you. I should cut your fucking throat and watch you bleed out, but we both know I can’t. Even after all the shit you’ve done, I can’t.”

“I can fix this.”

“No, you can’t.” He still didn’t turn back. “Go back to Kyoto. You don’t belong here anymore.”

“Just listen to me,” said Iwaizumi. He tried to stifle his desperation, but it leaked into his voice. “Oikawa, please. I can’t fix what I did to you, but I can do something about Kyoutani. Give me two days.”

“I’m not giving you anything, Iwaizumi. Never again.”

Iwaizumi’s breath left him, like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He collected himself enough to say, “Please. Kuroo won’t be able to fix it, not with the evidence they already have. Let me do this for you. Let me fix it.”

“Why?”

Iwaizumi opened his mouth to answer, but the words shriveled on his tongue. 

He knew why. He knew exactly why. Oikawa probably did, too. Still, he couldn’t say it.

“Please,” was all he could manage. “Two days.”

“I’m not promising you anything,” said Oikawa. His back was still toward Iwaizumi, his face out of sight. “Get out.”

The words were bitter, but there was something beneath the harsh surface, something that wavered just enough for Iwaizumi to hear.

Iwaizumi took a breath, started to speak again, then stopped himself. He took one last look at Oikawa before he left the office and stepped into the hall.

He didn’t go by his room to collect his things. His possessions didn’t matter.

In two days he would either return to Aoba Johsai or be on his way to prison.

He hoped it was the former option, though with the recklessness of the plan he was beginning to piece together, prison seemed much more likely.

  
  
  
  
  
****

*********

****

**TWO YEARS AGO**

****

*********  
  
  
  


Just like every Friday night, the club was packed full.

Iwaizumi had gotten used to the music. At first it had pounded in his pulse and given him long-lasting headaches, but now it was all too easy to ignore. He let the sound of the beat and the smell of alcohol and the glint of glitter on bare skin fade into the back of his mind.

He wove through the tables, stepped past Matsukawa to enter the corridor that hosted the club’s private rooms, and stopped outside of the one marked 3.

He pounded a fist against the door, hard enough to be heard through the soundproof walls. He stepped back and waited only a few seconds before the door opened and he was met with a pair of sharp eyes.

The man looked him up and down, his stare calculating. Then a taller man peered over his shoulder with a grin.

Iwaizumi recognized them immediately, though it had been a while since he’d seen them. They were two of Shiratorizawa’s best; the monster and the sharpshooter.

“Watanabe,” said the taller one, his leer widening. Iwaizumi labeled him Tendou Satori. “I was hoping we’d run into you. Did you know if I kill you right now Fukurodani will pay me two million yen?”

The one with the sharp eyes – Semi Eita – gave him a glare. “Shut up. You’re not killing him.”

“You can try.” That was Oikawa’s voice, barely audible from inside. “Both of you will be dead before you leave this room.” 

Tendou was still grinning.

“Let’s go,” said Semi. He gave Iwaizumi a nod and stepped past him. “We did what Ushijima said. We’re leaving.”

“Come on, Semi-Semi,” said Tendou, loping along behind him. “Let’s stay for a while. I’ll buy you a lapdance.”

“No.”

They continued past Matsukawa, reentering the main area of the club. Iwaizumi stepped into the private room and shut the door behind him. 

Oikawa was alone, sitting in one of the cushioned chairs with a glass of sake in hand. He sipped it as Iwaizumi stepped closer, eyeing him over the rim of the glass.

“What’d they want?” said Iwaizumi.

A few months ago, he’d never thought he would speak so informally to the leader of an organized crime syndicate. 

A lot of things had changed.

Oikawa answered the casual question without comment, unbothered. “Ushiwaka sent them. He’s concerned about the Fukurodani problem. It seems the sex trafficking has started to leak over into Shiratorizawa territory.” Oikawa took another drink and set his glass aside. “Kuroo has assured him that the problem will be dealt with, but he’s getting antsy. He heard about their conflict with us and he thinks it’s going to cause problems for him, too.” Oikawa rolled his eyes. “I told them to tell Ushiwaka to worry about his own problems. I can handle mine.”

“Can you?” said Iwaizumi. “It’s been a week and you haven’t done anything. Doesn’t look like you’re handling shit.”

Oikawa looked up at him, eyes flashing. “I’m going to take care of it.”

“When? After the Fukurodani boss dies of old age? At the rate you’re moving, that’s the only solution.”

A few seconds passed by slowly. The muted sound of the club music was like a distant fog in Iwaizumi’s ears. Much more present was the way Oikawa watched him through slightly narrowed eyes, mouth pulled tight.

Iwaizumi probably shouldn’t have been so brash, but Oikawa’s inaction was wearing on him. He’d been trapped in Aoba Johsai for a solid week, forbidden from leaving the premises, relying on Makki to fetch him takeout from nearby restaurants. 

He felt trapped, and he couldn’t take it.

Oikawa stood and moved closer, his gait steady. The sake hadn’t affected his balance, and his eyes were still perfectly clear.

“Are you questioning my leadership, Hajime?”

“No. I’m questioning your refusal to negotiate with Fukurodani.”

“You know what will happen if I do. They’ll want retribution in blood.”

“I already told you to give it to them,” said Iwaizumi. The words slid through his teeth, more aggressive than he would have liked. Over the past few days he’d resigned himself to his fate. If he had to suffer minor mutilation to prevent a yakuza war, he would make the sacrifice. It was the best option.

Oikawa seemed to disagree. “You’re not doing that.”

“Why?”

“I won’t let it happen.”

“But _why_ ? You’re being fucking ridiculous. We need to make peace with them so we can handle the trafficking. Until we’re on good terms we can’t do anything about it.”

“I don’t want to be on good terms with them. I want to kill them.”

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” snapped Iwaizumi. “Protecting me isn’t worth all this shit.”

“Yes, it is,” said Oikawa.

“Maybe I’ll just do it myself then,” said Iwaizumi. He turned on his heel and stomped toward the door. “I’ll ship Fukurodani one of my fingers in the fucking mail. Problem solved.”

He reached for the doorknob, but was shoved against the wall before he could turn it. Oikawa pressed a forearm against Iwaizumi’s chest, pinning him in place, his glare slicing straight through him. 

“You will not,” said Oikawa. The words were low, but fatal.

“Move.”

“No. We’re not letting them win. There’s a better way to do this.”

“If there was, you’d have thought of it already. I’m doing it, Oikawa.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Move.”

Oikawa’s glare only intensified. He didn’t intend to let Iwaizumi have his way, and Iwaizumi wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t sought out Oikawa for the purpose of having this conversation, but it was long overdue. He’d known for days that he was going to have to make a sacrifice to preserve the peace. He just hadn’t been eager to think about it. 

Iwaizumi was determined to end this war before it could truly start, and Oikawa was determined to stop him.

Iwaizumi slammed a palm into Oikawa’s elbow, shoving his arm away. He seized Oikawa by the shoulders and spun him around, flipping their positions, shoving Oikawa against the same wall. He held him there with his fingers gripping Oikawa’s upper arms like a dual vice.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn,” growled Iwaizumi, “and do the right thing. Seijoh is your top priority. Not me.”

“You don’t know shit about my priorities,” said Oikawa, the words dripping with venom. “I’m protecting what’s important to me.”

“Seijoh is important to you.”

“Maybe you’re more important, Hajime. Have you considered that?” Oikawa pulled against Iwaizumi’s hold. He didn’t budge. “Let go of me.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“You’re the one who’s being fucking stupid,” snapped Oikawa. “They’re not getting any part of you.” He seized the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt and yanked him closer. “You’re _mine_ , Hajime.” He breathed the words into Iwaizumi’s face. They smelled of sake and desperation. “No one will ever touch you.”

For a split second they were frozen there, so close that Iwaizumi could almost taste the sake on Oikawa’s lips. His hands were still wrapped around Oikawa’s arms, probably tight enough to bruise. Their matched gaze was eternal, reflecting months of fire and anguish.

Iwaizumi’s life was not where he thought it would be. He was a rogue officer who’d gone AWOL on an undercover mission and ruined his career. He was a high-ranking member of a yakuza syndicate in the service of Oikawa Tooru, who had killed for his status. There was currently a bounty of two million yen on his head. If Seijoh ever found out that Iwaizumi had been an officer, they would likely kill him slowly and painfully for his betrayal.

Iwaizumi had so many problems that they often kept him awake at night. He was a dead man walking and had more enemies than he could count.

In that room, with Oikawa only a breath away, he couldn’t think about any of that. In that room, he didn’t see Oikawa as a yakuza leader or as his boss or as a killer.

He saw him as Tooru, who was animated and charismatic and a little self-centered, at times. He was only Tooru, who was fiercely loyal to his friends and merciless to his enemies. He was Tooru, whose lips were like satin and whose eyes were like gemstones.

Iwaizumi discovered, when Oikawa’s mouth pressed against his, hot and demanding, that his lips were as soft as they looked.

When Oikawa kissed him, something inside Iwaizumi shattered. It may have been self-restraint, or denial, or even fear. It broke away, and the vacancy left behind was filled with white-hot _need_.

He surged forward, one hand gripping at Oikawa’s hair, the other fitting around a slim hip. His lip was snagged by blunt teeth, and a rough moan grew in Iwaizumi’s throat.

Oikawa’s fingers threaded through the back of his hair, feigning gentleness. Then they tightened and pulled, forcing Iwaizumi’s head back. 

Oikawa’s teeth followed the line of Iwaizumi’s jaw, his breath hot. 

“Downstairs,” said Oikawa, the word pressed into the side of Iwaizumi’s neck. “I want you _now_ , Hajime.”

Iwaizumi swallowed, but didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Oikawa released his hair and gave him a nudge toward the door. Iwaizumi went willingly, the searing heat of Oikawa’s mouth still burning on his skin.

The tension between them must have shown. Matsukawa asked what was wrong, but Oikawa waved him off and prodded Iwaizumi forward, following a short step behind him.

There was less than an arm’s length of distance between them, but it was still too much.

They went through the back door, down the stairs, and approached Oikawa’s office. Kindaichi stepped out of his room as they passed and offered them a quiet greeting, which Oikawa returned. Iwaizumi wasn’t certain if he could speak just yet.

Iwaizumi tapped in the code for Oikawa’s office with shaking fingers. It beeped, they stepped inside, and Oikawa breezed past him.

Oikawa went to the back corner, where another secure door waited. He pressed his thumb against the sensor, and when it granted him entry, he threw a smoldering look over his shoulder. Without a word he stepped inside the room and Iwaizumi hastened to follow.

Iwaizumi knew Oikawa lived in the rooms beyond the office, protected by unbreakable security. He knew, but only in theory. He’d never seen it himself.

He was seeing it now, but he doubted he would remember anything about it. His attention was claimed by Oikawa, who pressed against him again as soon as he stepped inside.

Iwaizumi’s back slammed against the closed door. His lips parted in a gasp and Oikawa licked into his mouth, the lingering taste of sake spreading across his tongue. Oikawa’s fingers scrabbled at the front of Iwaizumi’s shirt, pulling at the buttons, and Iwaizumi reached up to help. When his shirt hung open, Oikawa smoothed his hands across Iwaizumi’s chest, fingers spread. He dipped his head to graze his teeth along a collarbone. Iwaizumi tilted his head back, ignoring the blunt impact of his skull against the door. The pressure moved to his shoulders as Oikawa shoved his jacket away. It pooled onto the floor, and Oikawa tugged at the leather straps that sat snugly on Iwaizumi’s shoulders.

“Take them off,” said Oikawa, his voice lower than Iwaizumi had ever heard it. 

Iwaizumi complied, tugging at the straps of the holster. As he loosened the leather, Oikawa turned toward the bed, shedding his own jacket as he went. He wore his guns too, but his fingers were more deft as he loosened the straps. By the time Iwaizumi had shrugged out of his holster and placed his guns on the floor, Oikawa had already cast aside his own and was working at the buttons of his shirt, still turned away.

Iwaizumi stepped forward, intending to help, but it wasn’t necessary. Oikawa popped the last button and let the shirt fall away from his shoulders, slithering down his arms and piling at his feet.

Iwaizumi came to a sudden stop. His breath caught in his throat and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

The yakuza was a professional organization. They wore suits during the majority of their time, and even if they dressed more casually, it was always in long sleeves and buttoned-up shirts.

Iwaizumi knew why. He’d done so many hours of research on the yakuza that he could legitimately write his own book on the subject. He knew about the _irezumi_ , and if he’d spared a thought for it, he would have assumed Oikawa was no exception.

That didn’t stop the twist in his gut as he studied the lean slope of Oikawa’s back, the skin patterned with chromatic tattoos. 

“You’re staring, Hajime,” said Oikawa without looking back at him. He unlatched his pants and let them fall. His legs were inked as well, the tattoos stopping at mid-calf. 

The statement didn’t stop the staring, but it did nudge Iwaizumi back into motion. He stepped up behind Oikawa, gripped a tattooed shoulder, and spun him around. 

The ink started midway up his forearms, covered him to his shoulders, and then stretched down either side of his chest. There was a slice of pale, unmarked skin from Oikawa’s collarbone down to his waist that was about the size of Iwaizumi’s spread fingers, but everything else was rich, detailed color.

Iwaizumi tore his eyes away and kissed Oikawa with fervency, with fire. He tasted of sake and lust and something forbidden, intoxicating.

Oikawa pulled at the front of Iwaizumi’s pants, unhooking the button, pulling at the zipper, and then those were on the floor, too. His fingers dipped into the band of Iwaizumi’s underwear, lingering.

Iwaizumi didn’t know if Oikawa was dragging out the moment or waiting for permission. Either way, Iwaizumi was _burning_ , and he wasn’t willing to wait. He slapped Oikawa’s hands away and shoved his own underwear down, stepping out of them as he did the same with Oikawa’s. 

Oikawa walked him backward until Iwaizumi’s calves hit the edge of the bed. A hard push sent him toppling, bouncing once as he hit the mattress, scrambling back as Oikawa crawled on top of him.

Oikawa kissed him, slow but rough, all lips and teeth. They were pressed together, long lines of skin against skin, Oikawa’s thigh forging friction between Iwaizumi’s legs.

Iwaizumi raised his hips, rubbing against Oikawa, and was rewarded with a hard suction of lips against his neck. He clamped his teeth together and gripped Oikawa’s waist, pulling him down as he rutted up again.

The low murmur of a moan was muffled into Iwaizumi’s neck. Oikawa pried Iwaizumi’s hands away, captured his wrists, and pinned them against the mattress on either side of Iwaizumi’s head.

Iwaizumi could have fought against the restraint. He outmatched Oikawa in brute strength, just barely. Even so, he let himself be trapped, eyes closing as Oikawa leaned in to mouth at his throat again.

“I’m going to fuck you,” said Oikawa, his voice stoking the fire that burned just beneath Iwaizumi’s skin. “Okay?”

Iwaizumi nodded. He would let Oikawa do anything he wanted.

Oikawa squeezed his wrists so tightly that they ached. Then he backed off completely, leaving Iwaizumi alone and exposed. Iwaizumi turned his head to track Oikawa and was again mesmerized by the patterns inked into his flesh, the swirls of color that shifted as he moved.

Brilliant teal scales climbed his arms, twisting into the bodies of twin snakes. Their heads rested on either side of his chest, fangs bared, eyes wide in lethal warning. Scattered around them were maple leaves, sketched in a smokey gray, traced amid swirls of vivid cobalt. Dark chrysanthemums bloomed on either side of his ribs, the petals wide and yawning. 

Iwaizumi wanted to trace each shape and curve. He wanted to study Oikawa like he was on display in a museum, because Oikawa was more captivating than any piece of art Iwaizumi had ever seen.

When Oikawa returned he was already dripping lube onto his fingers, eyeing Iwaizumi’s prone form like a predator. He climbed onto the bed and propped himself up on an elbow, his body pressed against Iwaizumi’s side. 

“Spread your legs,” said Oikawa, his eyes traveling down the planes of Iwaizumi’s chest and torso and settling on his groin. 

Iwaizumi felt the first jolt of apprehension and hesitated.

Oikawa noticed. 

“Something wrong?” he said, flicking his tongue against the shell of Iwaizumi’s ear.

“No.”

“You sure?” said Oikawa. He sounded smug. “If there’s a problem-”

“Shut up,” said Iwaizumi. His voice was gruff, raspy. He spread his legs and let his knees fall apart. “Do it.”

Oikawa didn’t ask again. His knuckles brushed against Iwaizumi’s balls as he slipped a hand between his legs and pressed against him.

Oikawa pushed inside and Iwaizumi went rigid, gripping onto the sheets with clawlike hands, his jaw clenching. Oikawa paused, moving the single finger around idly, studying him with quiet speculation.

“You’ve never done this before,” said Oikawa. It wasn’t a question.

“Shut up.”

“No need to be embarrassed, Hajime,” said Oikawa. He pressed a kiss to Iwaizumi’s flushed cheek and licked at the seam of his lips. “I like it. It means you really are _mine_.”

He was looking at Iwaizumi with those carnivorous eyes, and a smile sharp enough to cut steel.

Iwaizumi was distantly reminded of their second meeting, when Oikawa had watched Kyoutani torture a traitor with that same piercingly eager look on his face.

It was intimidating, and a little scary, and Iwaizumi _burned_ for it.

Oikawa kissed him, and it was ravenous.

Iwaizumi reached for him, threaded a hand through Oikawa’s hair even as the sudden push of a second finger made his grip tighten. Oikawa hissed and left a stinging bite on Iwaizumi’s lower lip.

Iwaizumi growled at the pain and pulled Oikawa back down by his hair, the press of their mouths bruising, his desire roaring beneath his skin like an inferno.

They kissed like they were starved for it, and all the while Oikawa continued moving his fingers, prodding and scissoring, eventually sliding in a third that made Iwaizumi wince.

Oikawa huffed a light laugh, his grin smug. “You doing okay there, Hajime?”

“Fuck you.”

Oikawa sank down to mouth at Iwaizumi’s neck. He was still grinning. “That’s a nice offer. But I’d rather fuck _you_.”

He twisted his fingers deeper, curled upward, and Iwaizumi jolted like he’d been touched by a live wire. 

As quickly as the white-hot buzz of pleasure raced through him, it was gone. Oikawa withdrew his fingers and sat up. He maneuvered himself between Iwaizumi’s knees and grabbed the lube to slick himself up.

He wasn’t wearing a condom, and Iwaizumi should have minded. He should have said something. But he had already thrown his entire life away for Oikawa, and he felt this wasn’t a notable issue in comparison.

Besides, he wanted to feel him, skin to skin.

Oikawa stroked himself slowly, eyes roaming over Iwaizumi with avarice, finally settling on his face. 

“You know,” he said, voice low, “maybe I would let you fuck me.” He smoothed a hand along the inside of Iwaizumi’s thigh, the touch fleeting. His thumb brushed Iwaizumi’s dick and he shivered. “I’ve never let anyone, but… maybe you. Maybe someday.”

Iwaizumi let his head fall back, jaw tight, as Oikawa nudged against him.

“But today,” murmured Oikawa, “is not that day.”

He pushed inside with one hard thrust, and Iwaizumi bit down on a shout. 

The stretch burned, and unlike the heat coursing through his veins, this burn was unpleasant.

Fingers trailed along the edge of Iwaizumi’s jaw, almost gentle. “You’ll adjust,” said Oikawa quietly. His lips followed the path of his fingers, dragging slowly across Iwaizumi’s skin. “Try and relax.”

“It’s hard to relax with a dick inside of me,” said Iwaizumi through his teeth.

He felt the curve of Oikawa’s smile against the side of his face. “Has anyone ever told you how charming you are? You just have such a way with words.”

“Shut up, Shittykawa.”

“You resort to name-calling at the worst of times.” Oikawa’s teeth teased at the lobe of Iwaizumi’s ear. “So rude, Hajime.”

He licked Iwaizumi’s ear and bit at his neck, teasing at him until Iwaizumi was a little less tense beneath him.

“Ready now?” murmured Oikawa, kissing the ridge of Iwaizumi’s collarbone.

“Yeah, I guess.” 

“Don’t sound so eager.”

“Why would I be eager?” said Iwaizumi. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I think you’ll be surprised.” Oikawa kissed him one more time, a slide of soft lips and a flick of tongue. Then he pulled back, and all traces of gentleness were gone. Oikawa braced his knees against the bed, pulled out, and slammed forward again with enough force to push Iwaizumi an inch closer to the wall. 

Iwaizumi clutched at the sheets, trying to hold himself still as he adjusted to the rough pace, but Oikawa didn’t pause to give him the chance.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t slow, sensual or tender. What bloomed between them was lust, hot and bright and desperate. Oikawa slammed into him again and again, the snap of his hips fierce and urgent. Iwaizumi dug his heels into the mattress and pushed his hips up to meet the thrusts, the fresh angle sending that static buzz dancing through his veins, making him gasp for air. 

Oikawa’s name danced on Iwaizumi’s lips, soaking into the sweat-drenched air between them, dragging a moan from Oikawa’s throat. 

“Hajime.” It was almost a snarl, his teeth flashing between parted lips. He wrapped a hand around Iwaizumi’s cock, his grip just shy of painful. He stroked with his thrusts, piercing eyes drilling into Iwaizumi’s, hair stuck to his forehead. His tattoos were bright and brilliant, shifting over tensing muscles. 

Oikawa was strong and dangerous and beautiful, and Iwaizumi gasped his name as he came.

Oikawa followed a minute later, his jaw tight and his eyes squeezed shut. A dragging groan slipped between his lips as he filled Iwaizumi with heat.

Oikawa collapsed beside him to catch his breath. His hair was a mess, his skin shone with sweat, and Iwaizumi couldn’t stop staring.

He felt Oikawa’s come dripping out of him and he said, flatly, “This is disgusting.”

Oikawa turned his head to the side and grinned. “Don’t lie to me. You like it.”

Iwaizumi snorted, but said nothing.

After a while, Oikawa said, “We shouldn’t tell anyone about this.” His voice had lost the playful lilt. His brows were pulled low, the line of his mouth tight. “Fukurodani already wants you dead. If this got out, they’d be gunning for you twice as hard.”

“Okay.”

Oikawa reached out to trace his fingers along the line of Iwaizumi’s bicep. “Regardless of that, it’s best no one knows. It’ll make you a target. Everyone will know that they can go after you to get to me.”

Iwaizumi almost laughed. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to being a target.

But he understood the danger, and he just nodded. 

Oikawa’s face grew softer, some emotion flickering in his eyes that Iwaizumi couldn’t place. He looked like he was about to say something, but the beep of his cell phone obliterated the mood. Oikawa rolled away to grab it, and Iwaizumi pretended he wasn’t disappointed.

“Yeah?”

Iwaizumi pushed up on his elbows to watch Oikawa, who hovered by the foot of the bed with the phone pressed to his ear.

There was a quiet moment during which the caller spoke, and Iwaizumi could feel the tension bleeding into the room. He knew it was bad news before Oikawa even spoke.

“Kyoutani did _what_ ?”


	14. Chapter 14

Iwaizumi had asked Oikawa for two days. He hadn’t been explicitly granted those days, but he was going to stick to the request all the same. Forty-eight hours would be enough time for the hype about the fresh round of killings to die down around the police station. The blonde girl, the only witness, would have been moved to a safe location. The need for extra patrols would have lessened. The investigators would have finished with the crime scene and moved on to typical analyses during regular business hours.

In two days the routine of the police should have returned nearly to normal, and that was what Iwaizumi needed. His plan demanded that he break the law in so many ways that, if he was caught, he would never again see the light of day beyond a chain-link, barbed-wire fence.

It was two a.m. when he slipped out of a shadowed alley and approached the back door of the police station. His hood was pulled low over his forehead and he’d tied a black cloth around the lower half of his face to preserve his anonymity. 

He looked like a criminal, and that was exactly what he was about to become.

Iwaizumi knew this was a bad idea. He felt the wrongness of it down to his very bones. He’d devoted years of his life to serving the city, risking his own safety to maintain peace and order.

Now he was shattering that sanctity of peace and order, and though he felt uneasy, he did not feel guilty.

He reached into the pocket of his hoodie for a keycard, which he swiped across the sensor beside the door. A green light flashed, the door unlocked, and Iwaizumi stepped inside. The door directly to the left was a bathroom and he casually tossed the keycard into the corner. When it was found, maybe Hinata would think he’d lost it. He certainly wouldn’t think Iwaizumi had picked it out of his pocket when he’d been pushed into him two days prior. 

Iwaizumi stopped halfway down the hall, his nearly silent steps scuffing to a stop. He pressed a hand against the wall and paused to listen.

The station sounded vacant. There were no voices, not even the distant buzz of the television in the patrol room that was almost always left on. The air conditioning unit ran dully in the background. Iwaizumi strained his hearing beyond that muffled blanket of sound and picked out a low, inconsistent tapping. It was difficult to tell for sure, but it sounded like a keyboard.

There had been two police cruisers parked in the lot. That meant there were at least two officers somewhere in the building. The patrol room was the most likely place, which was an inconvenience considering Iwaizumi would have to pass through it to reach his destination.

He was listening so hard that the sudden sound of a radio made him jump.

“412, dispatch.” 

The voice was female, touched by a bit of static. 

“412,” said a much more direct voice. “Go ahead.”

Iwaizumi eased a step back. The patrol room door was open, and it gave a direct view into the hallway. If whoever was inside started to leave, there would be no way for them to miss him.

“We’ve received a ten-fifty-seven from the convenience store on Block 24,” said the dispatcher. 

“Ten-four. En route.”

There was a distant sigh, and then another voice spoke. “Need backup?” It sounded bored, uninterested.

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” said the first voice. “There have been at least five false alarms there in the past month. The chances that something has actually happened are pretty low.” There was a squeaking wheel of a desk chair and the shuffle of clothing as the person stood. “It should only take a few minutes.”

Iwaizumi suppressed the urge to run. He inched backward, one foot behind the other, and ducked into the open bathroom doorway just as he saw a flicker of motion from the patrol room.

He slipped behind the door and flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath as footsteps approached.

If the officer had to relieve himself before he reported to the call, Iwaizumi would be arrested for trespassing. That was the least offensive of the things Iwaizumi was planning, and it would only get him a few days in jail at most.

But it would stop him from fulfilling his promise to Oikawa.

The officer moved past without stopping, and through the crack behind the door, Iwaizumi caught a glimpse of his profile. He recognized him as Yamaguchi, who’d been a new hire when Iwaizumi had left. Luckily Yamaguchi’s bladder wasn’t in need of attention and he left the station without incident.

Iwaizumi exhaled, the breath hot against the cloth masking his face. He was beginning to sweat, either from the layers of clothing or the stress of his predicament. He reached up to wipe the edge of his sleeve across his forehead. 

It appeared that there was only one other officer left inside the station. That was better than two, but it didn’t really help his situation. Unless another call came in before the other officer returned, Iwaizumi wouldn’t get a chance to slip past unnoticed. 

While he was pondering, there was the sound of boots slapping against the floor. He stiffened, breath catching again, and leaned toward the crack of the door to listen. There was a bit of shuffling, then a metallic tinkle of keys as someone approached. Iwaizumi pressed his back to the wall again, staring at the slice of hallway visible from his position, hoping the other officer wasn’t getting up to use the restroom. 

Iwaizumi might be able to overpower him, with the element of surprise on his side. He might be able to knock the man unconscious and finish his mission before he woke up. It was possible, but that was farther than Iwaizumi wanted to go. A shameful list of crimes were already on his agenda. He didn’t want to add assault.

The heavy thud of footsteps stopped outside the door. The man paused to fiddle with his radio, and Iwaizumi distantly recognized the blond hair and glasses. His name was Tsukishima. He’d dabbled in undercover work for a little while, but had clearly been placed back on patrol. From what Iwaizumi remembered, Tsukishima had been assigned to Nekoma, and had suffered quite a few run-ins with Kuroo. It was relatively surprising that he was still around, considering the inconveniences he’d caused.

Tsukishima pressed the speaker of his radio and said, “Dispatch, 411. En route to the fifty-seven.”

“Ten-four, 411.”

Tsukishima plodded down the hallway, belatedly following Yamaguchi. There was the distant sound of the door and then silence.

Iwaizumi counted slowly to fifteen, to make sure Tsukishima wouldn’t return for anything forgotten. Then he carefully stepped back into the hallway and headed toward the patrol room. 

There was a camera in the left-hand corner. He already knew, and he was prepared. He pulled his hood closer to his face as he stepped into the room, giving it a quick sweep to confirm it was empty. With his face shielded, he crossed to the far wall and slipped through another door, relaxing only slightly when he was out of camera range. When they played back the video later they would see him, but even if they suspected him as the culprit, there wouldn’t be enough to identify him from the film alone. He was dressed in black from head to toe, including tight gloves that made his palms sweat. The camera wouldn’t have captured even a glimpse of him.

The path to the front of the station was empty. The offices he passed, home to the higher-ranking officers and various detectives, were all vacant. He passed by the interrogation rooms in which he’d seen Shimizu and the blonde victim, and then took a left. Only a moment later he stood outside the evidence room, the domain of Azumane Asahi. The door was locked, but that was unsurprising. Iwaizumi was prepared for it.

He dropped to one knee and reached into his pocket for the lockpick he’d fashioned out of bobby pins the night before.

Lockpicking wasn’t something that he’d learned while working with the police. If they needed to gain entry, they simply kicked in the door. Hanamaki had been the one to teach him this particular skill, so long ago that Iwaizumi was surprised he still remembered how to do it. It wasn’t as if he’d had any reason to practice over the past couple of years. 

He fitted the stretched-out bobby pins into the lock and maneuvered them around, feeling for the give. There was a muted click, and then another, before the tumblers turned and the door pushed inward. He slipped inside and nudged the door shut behind him.

The office was windowless and dark. Iwaizumi slipped a newly purchased flashlight out of his pocket and started toward Azumane’s desk.

He’d learned preparedness at the police academy.

He’d never thought he’d be applying it in this way.

The door on the rear wall was made of metal bars. Beyond it was the full collection of the evidence that the police had collected on every case for the past ten years. The lock was not one that Iwaizumi could circumvent, and he didn’t plan to try. Instead he sat in Azumane’s desk chair, the leather squeaking beneath his weight, and pulled out each drawer. They all opened easily except for the one on the top right. It had been locked, and Iwaizumi knew he’d found what he was looking for.

He set to work with the bobby pins again, holding the flashlight between his teeth. This lock was almost too small for him to work with, and it took five solid minutes before he made any progress, but at length it clicked open. He tucked the pins back into his pocket and wiped his sleeve across his damp forehead. His heart rate, which had been slightly higher than usual ever since he’d walked into the police station, was now beginning to pick up even more. It stuttered in his chest, a constant reminder of his bad decisions.

He pulled open the drawer and sifted through the contents. In the back, behind a couple spare boxes of ammunition, he found the ring of keys he was looking for.

They rattled too loudly and he gripped them in his hand to mute them. There was likely no one around to hear, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. 

He rose from the chair and stepped to the barred door. It wasn’t difficult to find the correct key. It was the first one he tried, and he pulled the metal door open. 

He paused in the threshold, struck by the reality of the situation. 

Up to this point he was breaking and entering. That was bad enough in its own right, but it was somewhat forgivable. He wouldn’t serve any serious time over it.

If he stepped into the evidence room and touched absolutely anything, he would cross the line into felony territory. Tampering with evidence was not something that the police looked upon lightly. 

Iwaizumi took a deep breath, his heart fluttering like a wounded sparrow. 

This was where he made his true decision. There was no coming back from this.

If he walked away, he could go back to Kyoto and have a normal life. If he became less of a recluse, maybe he would find someone he liked, and eventually learn to love them. Maybe he could have a family, and a career, and find happiness. 

Maybe there was a bright future waiting for him, if only he would go and search for it.

Maybe, but Iwaizumi would never know.

He reached into the deep front pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a can of black spray paint. He shook it up, the clacking too loud in the vacant office.

The last two years had been miserable, and Iwaizumi knew why.

He could probably have a normal life, but that life wouldn’t have Oikawa Tooru in it. 

He adjusted his mask higher and pulled his hood lower, concealing as much of his face as possible while still retaining his vision. There were two cameras in the evidence room; one on the closest wall, one on the farthest. 

He stepped inside and cut to the left, popping the cap off of the spraypaint and raising it like a weapon.

He blacked out the lens of the first camera, the pungent scent of paint spiking the air. He kept his head down as he paced to the back wall and repeated the process, triggering the aerosol can until the camera was completely black.

He did a quick sweep of the room, to make sure no other security measures had been installed in the past two years. It appeared to be clear, and Iwaizumi relaxed a little. He put the spraypaint down and pushed back his hood. His hair was wet with nervous sweat, and the cool air was comforting. He didn’t pull down his mask, despite the discomfort of the humid cloth. He wasn’t exposing his face here, no matter how safe his identity may have been.

With his flashlight guiding the way, he paced along the rows of shelves, searching. He knew the layout of the room. The evidence was arranged chronologically, which meant the most recent cases would be the farthest back. He found the shelves dated for the current year, and skipped three months into the past, around the time Kyoutani had been arrested. 

It wasn’t difficult to find. The appropriate box had been labeled with Kyoutani’s name and date of birth.

Iwaizumi pulled it off the shelf and knelt in the floor, again biting the flashlight between his teeth as he removed the lid and rifled through the contents. 

There were several files. He flipped through them, finding photographs and statements and detailed information about the circumstances of Kyoutani’s arrest. Iwaizumi removed all of the files and stuffed them into the front of his hoodie. Aside from the paperwork, there were only three items remaining. One was a small bag of bullets, which Iwaizumi slipped into his pocket. Another was a bag containing the clothes Kyoutani had worn on the day of the arrest. Iwaizumi didn’t bother with those; the police could return them to Kyoutani themselves.

The final item in the box was the gold-plated pistol that Kyoutani loved more than life itself. The name “Mad Dog” was engraved on the grip. Yahaba had given it to him as a gift when Iwaizumi had still been part of Seijoh, and the hug Yahaba had gotten in return was the only display of affection he’d ever seen Kyoutani offer to anyone.

Iwaizumi removed the gun from the evidence bag and tucked it into the back waistband of his jeans, pulling the edge of his hoodie down to hide it.

He put the lid back on the box and slipped it onto the shelf where it belonged. Then he paced along the rows again, following the dates to a more recent time. 

There was another reason Iwaizumi had needed to wait two days. If he’d done this the night after the killings, the reports wouldn’t have been completed yet. Now that the police had been given time to get organized, there was a box labeled “Adachi Murders”. It was the last one on the shelf, the newest case.

Iwaizumi pulled the box out and went through the contents.

There was a lot of physical evidence, including the bullets recovered from the scene. They were crushed and misshapen, but still a shiny bronze. There was a stack of lab reports explaining everything that had been sent off for analysis, including blood samples and collected fingerprints. 

Iwaizumi ignored all of that. He went straight for the paperwork and flipped past the stack of photographs that showed a scene he’d experienced firsthand.

Midway through, he found a file labeled “Yachi Hitoka.” He didn’t recognized the name, but when he flipped it open, he recognized a snapshot of the blonde girl from the crime scene.

Her testimony was included, a written account of everything she’d seen. As he flipped through, Iwaizumi’s thumb brushed against a thicker sheet of paper, a texture that he recognized.

It was a sketch of the suspect, drawn by a specialized artist with the use of Yachi’s memories. 

Iwaizumi closed his eyes and took a breath, resisting the urge to look. It was possible he wouldn’t even recognize the drawing. Much of the time they were inaccurate because of the victim’s inability to remember.

Often, though, the sketches matched up perfectly.

Iwaizumi flipped the folder shut and tucked it beneath his hoodie, alongside Kyoutani’s paperwork. He put the box back on the shelf, pulled his hood up again, and headed for the door.

He put everything back in order before he left. The barred door was secure, Azumane’s desk drawers were pushed shut, and the door to his office was quietly closed. The only evidence of Iwaizumi’s presence would be the blacked out cameras and the missing evidence. And the can of spraypaint, which he now remembered he’d left inside the evidence room.

He thought of returning for it, but dismissed the idea quickly. His method of masking the cameras would be obvious. He’d worn gloves during the entire affair so there would be no prints to find.

Iwaizumi retraced his steps through the hall and back to the patrol room, which was still blessedly empty. It had taken Iwaizumi exactly twenty-two minutes to complete his mission from the moment he’d stepped inside the door. That wasn’t bad time, but each moment he lingered increased the chances that he would be caught.

He hastened down the hallway and slipped out the back door. The cool night air on his face was a relief.

The police cruiser parked in the lot was not.

Iwaizumi was already running when Tsukishima shouted at him. 

“Hey, you! Stop! What do you think you’re doing?”

Iwaizumi ducked into the alley, painfully aware of the distant footsteps taking up pursuit, and ran with everything he had.

  
  
  
  
  


*********

**TWO YEARS AGO**

*********

 

 

 

Oikawa was so furious that his face was completely closed off.

That was strange, now that Iwaizumi knew him better. At first his mask had seemed flawless, his emotions pinned up and hidden behind faux smiles and impassive stares. Now, though, Iwaizumi could almost always see something flickering behind the mask.

Oikawa sat behind his desk, hands folded in front of him, and on his face was nothing. It made Iwaizumi uneasy, and a little frightened.

“Yahaba,” said Oikawa. 

Yahaba jolted like he’d been kicked. He and Kyoutani stood in the middle of Oikawa’s office like two men at the gallows. Iwaizumi waited in front of the door, preventing a hasty exit, and he felt too much like the executioner.

“It was my fault,” said Yahaba. He shifted from foot to foot, restless. “I shouldn’t have-”

Kyoutani jammed his elbow into Yahaba’s ribs, so hard that Yahaba took a staggering step to the side.

“He didn’t do nothin’,” said Kyoutani. His voice was grittier than usual. “He wasn’t even there. I killed them by myself.”

Oikawa’s attention flitted from Kyoutani to Yahaba, who gripped at his ribs. Yahaba’s face was drawn in pain, but Iwaizumi didn’t think that pain was physical.

“Tell me what happened,” said Oikawa.

Yahaba started to speak, but Kyoutani talked over him.

“They were on our territory,” said Kyoutani. “They knew I was Seijoh. They asked if I knew where _he_ was.” He jerked his head toward Iwaizumi, whose heart skipped unpleasantly. “They were asking ‘cause of the hit. So I killed them. I’d do it again.”

“Shut up, Kyoutani,” hissed Yahaba.

“Fuck off. It’s true.”

“What you’re telling me,” said Oikawa icily, “is that you saw two Fukurodani members roaming around in public, so you killed them in the middle of a convenience store and ran away.”

“They were after us first,” spat Kyoutani. “They asked for it.”

Oikawa’s folded hands tightened together.

“He doesn’t mean that,” said Yahaba. He stepped in front of Kyoutani, shielding him from Oikawa’s wrath. “I’m sorry, Oikawa-san.” He folded over into a bow of apology and regret, a gesture that Kyoutani would have never made. “You told me to keep an eye on him and I failed. I will accept full responsibility for this.”

Kyoutani shoved him, and Yahaba stumbled to the side, rising from his bow. “No, you won’t,” said Kyoutani. “You didn’t do nothin’.”

“Oikawa-san, please,” said Yahaba. “This was my fault. I will accept all consequences.”

He and Kyoutani shared a sharp look; Yahaba’s was of warning, Kyoutani’s of resentment.

“I don’t think either of you understand the repercussions here,” said Oikawa. He stood and circled his desk, moving with the stride of a stalking predator. 

By the door, Iwaizumi shifted and folded his arms, the tension of the room seeping into his pores.

Oikawa stopped in front of the pair of them. He looked to Yahaba, who stared back with visible apprehension. 

“I told you to keep a leash on him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Yahaba. “I should have done better, I should have-”

The words were silenced by a loud crack as Oikawa slapped him through the face.

Yahaba gritted his teeth against the pain, but said nothing.

“And you,” said Oikawa. He seized Kyoutani by the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward, giving him a sharp push toward the desk. “You never learn your fucking lesson, Kyouken-chan. Rabid dogs should be put down.”

Yahaba tensed and started forward, but a sharp look from Oikawa stopped him in his tracks. 

Iwaizumi felt a wash of apprehension, digging down to his very bones. Kyoutani was too valuable. Surely Oikawa wouldn’t kill him, no matter how badly he’d messed up. It wasn’t as if messing up was uncommon for Kyoutani. 

Usually, though, his mistakes weren’t this serious.

“Fukurodani is going to declare all-out war against us,” said Oikawa. He stepped back behind his desk and sank into his chair. He was no less intimidating like that than he was standing. “Things were already unstable with them. You’ve started a war, Kyouken-chan.”

“They started it,” said Kyoutani, the words pushed through his teeth. “They came after us first.”

“They came after Hajime,” said Oikawa. His voice was calm, but Iwaizumi heard the notes of fury swimming like sharks just below the surface. “That’s not the same as war. You’ve put us all in danger.”

It was a different attitude than Oikawa had displayed for the past week, when he’d been convinced that Fukurodani’s decision to target Iwaizumi had been the same as an invitation to battle. 

It seemed he was finally seeing reason. He knew what Kyoutani’s actions meant, and if left unchecked, those two Fukurodani members would only be the first casualties. The next ones would come from Seijoh.

“I’m going to have to settle this before it gets out of control,” said Oikawa. “It will be much easier to do that if I carry your head to Fukurodani’s boss as a consolation prize.” Kyoutani didn’t react to the threat, but Yahaba flinched.

“Luckily for you, Kyouken-chan,” said Oikawa, “your thick skull is too heavy to lug around.” He slid out a desk drawer and dipped his hand inside. He withdrew a plain white handkerchief, which he delicately spread on the surface of his desk. Then he pulled out a knife, and Iwaizumi’s heart leapt into his throat.

He’d never witnessed this, but he knew what was about to happen, and he didn’t want to be there.

“You killed two men,” said Oikawa calmly, “so I think your atonement should be twice as serious as usual.” He placed the blade flat on the desk and swiveled the handle toward Kyoutani. “You should have learned by now, Kyouken-chan. Soon you won’t have any fingers left.”

Kyoutani’s jaw was set so tightly that his teeth were in danger of cracking. He reached for the knife, taking it in his right hand.

The left dangled at his side, already missing chunks of flesh.

“How much?” said Kyoutani gruffly. 

“Whatever you feel is appropriate,” said Oikawa. “Whatever will pacify Fukurodani and stop them from declaring war. If it isn’t enough, I will make you take more. Do it properly the first time, Kyouken-chan.” 

Kyoutani considered him silently. Then he placed his hand flat on the desk, palm spread on the handkerchief.

“Oikawa-san,” said Yahaba. His fists were clenched, but Iwaizumi still saw the way that his hands shook. “Please. I will take responsibility for this. I’ll do it instead, I will-”

“Shut up,” said Oikawa.

Yahaba’s mouth still moved around silent words. Then he shut it and looked at the floor, defeated.

Iwaizumi’s own hands curled into fists, nails digging into flesh, as Kyoutani arranged the blade like a guillotine.

There was a moment where the room went still and silent. Nothing moved, no one breathed, and it felt like being underwater.

Then there was a flash of a blade and a grunt of pain, coupled with the crack of bone and a spurt of blood.

Part of Kyoutani’s finger rolled away from his hand, and Iwaizumi closed his eyes against encroaching nausea. 

If Iwaizumi had gone back to the police department, if he’d written his report and sold out Seijoh, this wouldn’t have happened. 

He’d chosen this.

Now, as blood drizzled from Kyoutani’s shaking hand and Yahaba’s face went ghostly pale, he feared this was only the beginning.


	15. Chapter 15

An hour after he’d left the police station, Iwaizumi finally made it to Aoba Johsai. It shouldn’t have taken that long. A leisurely walk would have gotten him there faster. The trip had been made more difficult, however, by the host of police cruisers swarming the area, searching for the suspect who’d broken into the station.

They probably didn’t yet know what he’d done or what he’d taken, but they would find out soon enough.

As soon as Sawamura heard, he would know Iwaizumi was to blame.

Those pressing worries eased slightly as he stepped into the club and pulled down his makeshift mask. The air was cool on his face and he breathed a sigh of relief. He patted the front of his hoodie, confirming the stolen paperwork was still in place. Then he started toward the back of the building.

There wasn’t much of a crowd. The nightly activities were winding down and most of the dancers had already left the stage for the night. Only two remained, watched by a cluster of the most dedicated patrons.

Iwaizumi didn’t make it to the door. Matsukawa intercepted him, pulling him away from the sparse crowd with an iron grip at his shoulder.

“What’re you doing here, Iwaizumi?” he asked tiredly. “Oikawa said you’re not allowed back.”

“I need to see him,” said Iwaizumi. “It’s important.”

Matsukawa was unimpressed. “He said if you show up I’m supposed to kick you out.”

“You can try, but I’m not leaving until I see him. It’s about Kyoutani.”

Something shifted in Matsukawa’s expression, but he didn’t give in. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Not really.”

“It’s after three. Oikawa is probably sleeping.”

“Then wake him up. It can’t wait, Mattsun.”

Matsukawa looked at something over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “You know if I do that he’s going to be pissed.”

“Then pretend you didn’t see me and I’ll wake him up myself.”

Matsukawa sighed and shook his head.

Iwaizumi felt someone step up close behind him. He didn’t have to look back; he knew who it was.

“You were right,” said Hanamaki. “He did come back.”

“Makki,” said Iwaizumi. “I need to see Oikawa.”

Matsukawa spoke up. “I already told you-”

“You need to listen,” snapped Iwaizumi. “Both of you. I’m going to see him tonight. Either you let me or I’ll force my way down, but I’m going to see him all the same. I don’t want to fight either of you, but I will if you make me.”

The two of them exchanged a look. Iwaizumi knew they weren’t concerned about the threat. Everyone in the higher rankings of Seijoh was strong enough to be there, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa were no exception. He was confident that he could hold his own against either of them if it came down to a fight, but he wasn’t certain if he could fend off both of them.

If that was his only option, he would try anyway.

“What about Kyoutani?” Matsukawa finally said, after sharing a silent look with Hanamaki.

“He can be free by tomorrow,” said Iwaizumi. 

Even if nothing else he’d said had made an impact, that seemed to change Matsukawa’s mind. He sighed, and seemed to deflate. “Okay,” he said. “When Oikawa gets mad I’m telling him you threatened me with bodily injury.”

“Tell him whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

Matsukawa started toward the back door, but Iwaizumi lingered for just a second longer.

“Hey, Makki?” he said. “If the police show up, pretend you didn’t see me.”

Hanamaki raised a brow at that, but said nothing. Iwaizumi scratched at his sweat-damp hair and followed Matsukawa downstairs.

He waited in the hallway outside Oikawa’s office while Matsukawa went to fetch the boss. 

Iwaizumi shouldn’t have been nervous. Only a couple of hours before, he’d broken into the police station, vandalized federal property, and stolen classified information and evidence. 

Yet the prospect of Oikawa refusing to see him sent his pulse racing even more quickly than it had during Tsukishima’s foot pursuit.

Matsukawa emerged six minutes later. It felt much longer.

He said nothing. He simply gestured toward the office door and stepped back to let Iwaizumi pass.

Iwaizumi took a breath, held it, and went to meet his fate.

Oikawa was waiting. It was clear that Matsukawa had woken him. Oikawa’s shirt was only half-buttoned and his hair was rumpled from a fitful sleep. Despite the sudden awakening, however, his eyes were as sharp as ever. 

“I told you,” said Oikawa, not a bit groggily, “to leave my city.”

“And I told you,” said Iwaizumi, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, “I needed two days.”

“I should kill you.”

“You should, but you said yourself that you won’t.”

“I might change my mind.”

“You won’t,” said Iwaizumi.

They stared at one another. Iwaizumi stood near the door and Oikawa sat stiffly behind his desk, gripping the arms of the chair.

“Why are you dressed like a burglar?” said Oikawa.

That was as much permission as Iwaizumi expected to get. He stepped forward, crossing the short distance between the door and the desk. As he moved he pulled at the front of the hoodie and collected the files and paperwork that nearly spilled into the floor. He dropped the information onto Oikawa’s desk, a messy spread of papers and folders and files. He dipped into his pocket and removed the bullets he’d taken from Kyoutani’s evidence box, then reached into the waistband of his jeans and slipped out Kyoutani’s gun. He placed it on the desk between them, the gold plating glimmering. 

Oikawa stared blankly at the gun. When he looked up at Iwaizumi, his impassive mask was firmly in place. “What is this?”

“This is everything the police had on Kyoutani,” said Iwaizumi. “They still have the reports saved electronically, but now all of their evidence is gone. They can’t prosecute him. If you call in one more favor to Kuroo, he can get Kyoutani released. The police have no grounds to hold him without evidence.”

“Where did you get this?”

The answer was obvious. Oikawa already knew, but Iwaizumi answered him anyway.

“From the police station. I broke in.”

“Why?”

“I told you I would fix this,” said Iwaizumi. He planted his hands on the desk and leaned slightly forward. “I fucked up, Oikawa. I should have told you about Kyoutani.” He took a breath and looked down, focusing on the polished gun instead of having to hold Oikawa’s gaze. “Two years ago, I shouldn’t have left.”

There was a stretch of deafening silence. Oikawa slowly stood and paced around the desk. He was barefoot, and his subtle limp was more noticeable. He moved close, so close that Iwaizumi felt him hovering at the edge of his consciousness.

“Hajime.”

The sound of his name sent a conflicting bolt of tension and relief straight into Iwaizumi’s chest. He turned, slowly.

Oikawa studied him. His brows were tucked together slightly, forehead creased in thought.

Two years ago, Oikawa’s forehead hadn’t wrinkled like that, even when he’d made that face.

He’d gotten a little older, and so had Iwaizumi.

“Are you going to leave me again?” said Oikawa.

The question made Iwaizumi ache. He bit down to stifle his wince, a hot flush of shame warming the back of his neck. “No,” he said quietly. “I won’t leave you.” 

“Promise me.”

“I promise. I’ll be here until you make me leave.”

“You know I’ll never do that.”

“Then I’ll be here forever.”

The deepness of Oikawa’s expression lifted. The wrinkle on his brow disappeared. He took a small step forward, his body swaying to the side as he shifted his weight onto his right leg. He reached out and pressed his hands on either side of Iwaizumi’s face, cradling his jaw. “Tell me I can trust you.”

“You can trust me,” said Iwaizumi. The words came easily, because finally, they were true. The heat of Oikawa’s fingers leached into his skin, seeping down to his core. He closed his eyes and basked in it. He’d thought he would never feel Oikawa’s hands on him again.

Oikawa’s thumbs pressed beneath Iwaizumi’s chin, coaxing his face up. Then Oikawa’s mouth brushed against Iwaizumi’s. It was feather-light, but still enough to make Iwaizumi’s heart squeeze too tightly in his chest.

He didn’t move. He took only what he was given, and when Oikawa pulled away, he opened his eyes. 

Oikawa was still so close that Iwaizumi felt his warm exhales. “Hajime.” Iwaizumi felt the low murmur against his lips. “Kiss me.”

Iwaizumi reached up and brushed a lock of messy hair away from Oikawa’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear. Then he slid his fingers around the back of Oikawa’s neck and pulled him forward. 

Their mouths met with more force, enough to make Iwaizumi’s blood buzz just beneath the surface. His lips slid against Oikawa’s, soft and dry. 

It was gentle. It was soothing.

It wasn’t enough.

Oikawa seemed to feel the same way. He pulled back and said, “Kiss me like you _mean it_ , Hajime.”

Iwaizumi’s brows folded into a scowl, though a thrill of anticipation burst in the back of his skull. He gripped the back of Oikawa’s hair and spun him around, forcing Oikawa against the desk, moving close to pin him there. He dug his fingers into the front of Oikawa’s sloppily buttoned shirt and yanked him forward. The kiss was bruising. Iwaizumi sucked at Oikawa’s lips, bit down on them lightly, traced the soft skin with his tongue. 

Oikawa buried his hands in Iwaizumi’s hair and pulled, dragging a pained gasp from Iwaizumi’s throat. He dipped his tongue into Iwaizumi’s mouth, licking past his teeth, leaving himself branded across Iwaizumi’s tongue.

He tasted just as sweet as Iwaizumi remembered.

Iwaizumi pressed into him, rememorizing the feeling of Oikawa’s body against his own. He looped an arm around Oikawa’s back and pulled him closer, their chests flush together, their hips so close that he felt the heat of Oikawa’s groin against his own.

Oikawa gave another painful yank to Iwaizumi’s hair, prying him away. He peered at Iwaizumi with those dark gemstone eyes, and they were full of heat. “Move.”

Iwaizumi took an obliging step back. Oikawa slipped past him and crossed the room, to the door in the back corner. His limp was more noticeable than Iwaizumi had thought.

Oikawa pressed his index finger against the keypad beside the door. It beeped, a green light flashed, and the door clicked as it unlocked. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Come on.”

Iwaizumi started to move, then stopped and glanced at the desk. “What about Kyoutani?”

Oikawa’s stare narrowed. “It’s his own fault that he got arrested. He’s too reckless. Kyouken-chan can wait until tomorrow, Hajime. I can’t.”

He slipped into the room beyond, and Iwaizumi followed without further argument. 

Oikawa gripped the end of Iwaizumi’s sleeve and tugged him toward the rumpled bed. 

“Take that jacket off. It’s disgusting.”

Iwaizumi complied with a huff, peeling the hoodie over his head and dropping it somewhere by his feet. He pulled at the makeshift mask he’d worn at the police station, now looped uselessly around his neck, and discarded it, too. 

Oikawa’s fingers curled around his shoulders, then traveled over the planes of his chest, his palms warm even through Iwaizumi’s t-shirt. 

Oikawa gave him a hard shove and Iwaizumi stumbled back, tripping into an awkward seat at the edge of the bed. Oikawa pushed him down on his back, the sheets soft on the back of his neck. He shifted closer to the middle of the bed and then Oikawa was on top of him, heavy yet comforting, draping himself over Iwaizumi’s chest and leaning in to kiss him.

The scent of Oikawa was everywhere, swirling around him like fog. He smelled of woodland and gun oil and expensive shampoo. 

Two years had done nothing to erase that scent from his memory.

Iwaizumi sucked at Oikawa’s lip and pulled at the mismatched buttons on his shirt, popping them open blindly. Oikawa slipped a hand beneath Iwaizumi’s shirt and felt his way up his stomach to his chest, splaying his fingers across firm muscle.

When Iwaizumi finished with the buttons Oikawa sat up, his left knee tucked beneath him, his right leg held out at an awkward angle. 

Oikawa shrugged the shirt off of his shoulders. It slithered down his arms, revealing the swirls of color that painted his skin. 

Iwaizumi had seen Oikawa’s tattoos before, but that made it no less overwhelming to see them again; the sneering snakes and the wash of chrysanthemums and the flurry of maple leaves.

“What are you staring at?” said Oikawa. His mouth tipped into a smirk. 

The light teasing sent a thrill zipping down Iwaizumi’s spine. He pulled Oikawa down into the sheets and straddled him, curving over to leave sharp, biting kisses along the long line of his neck.

Oikawa let his head fall to the side and slipped his hands beneath Iwaizumi’s shirt again, his fingers traveling over his ribs.

Iwaizumi sat up long enough to pull his shirt over his head and then he again descended, licking along Oikawa’s collarbone, pressing his lips against the cobalt ink resting just beneath it. 

He slipped a hand down to pull at the button of Oikawa’s pants, working them open and nudging them down Oikawa’s hips.

Oikawa planted his heels and pushed himself up, allowing Iwaizumi to peel off the clothing and toss it to the floor. He smoothed a hand along Oikawa’s ribs, over his hip, down to his thigh. His fingers stopped before they reached his knee. 

He stared too long, but he couldn’t make himself look away. Even beneath the layer of tattoos, the ugly, ropy scars were clearly visible. They cut above and below his kneecap, lacing around to the back of his leg. Iwaizumi’s fingers hovered over them, uncertain, until Oikawa said, “It doesn’t hurt anymore. It aches sometimes, and it doesn’t always move the way I want it to, but it’s mostly fine.”

Iwaizumi closed his eyes and grabbed a handful of sheets to ground himself. “I’m sorry.”

Oikawa huffed a breath. His fingers trailed up Iwaizumi’s arm and he said, “You don’t have anything to apologize for. If you hadn’t been there, I’d be dead.”

“I should’ve protected you.”

“You did, Hajime.” He cupped Iwaizumi’s neck and coaxed him back down. “You did.”

The taste of Oikawa flooded his mouth again. Nimble fingers tugged at his jeans, and Iwaizumi tried to help. He kicked them off and then Oikawa was on top of him again, his knees spread wide on either side of Iwaizumi. He rolled his hips down and Iwaizumi bit his lip to contain his voice.

Oikawa pressed a finger against Iwaizumi’s lower lip, pulling down until it was free of his teeth. He leaned over to kiss him, and said, “I want you to fuck me, Hajime.”

It was good that Iwaizumi was no longer chewing his lip, because he probably would have bitten right through it.

His teeth clamped together as Oikawa ducked to drag his lips along Iwaizumi’s jaw.

He started to speak, stopped when Oikawa licked at his ear, and then managed to say, “Are you sure?”

Oikawa huffed a breath against his skin. He sat up and dragged his fingertips lightly down Iwaizumi’s chest and across his stomach, sliding them just beneath the band of Iwaizumi’s underwear. “I’ve never let anyone fuck me,” said Oikawa quietly, his fingers slipping a little lower. “I never will, unless it’s you. I want to feel you, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi was helpless beneath the thrall of a full-body shudder. Oikawa nibbled at the shell of his ear and then slipped away, fetching lube from the bedside table and sprawling back on a heap of pillows. He started slicking up his own fingers and Iwaizumi moved closer.

“I’ll do that for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Oikawa. “Just strip me.”

He lifted his hips and Iwaizumi slid his underwear down. They crumpled to the floor and Iwaizumi kicked out of his own as well, tossing them over the edge of the bed.

Oikawa’s eyes dipped down Iwaizumi’s body, lingering. He spread his legs and reached around to tease at his entrance. His attention was on Iwaizumi, gaze unwavering. 

Iwaizumi crawled between Oikawa’s knees, grazing his lips across an inked inner thigh. Oikawa’s breath left him in a huff and he slowly pressed one of his fingers in. 

“Don’t push yourself,” murmured Iwaizumi, sucking lightly at Oikawa’s skin. 

“I’m not,” said Oikawa. His voice was only a little strained. He twisted his finger, trying to stretch himself. “I just want you _now_.”

A pulse of heat went straight to Iwaizumi’s dick. He mouthed at Oikawa’s thigh and worked his way up, licking at his balls and up his length, pausing with the tip of Oikawa’s dick pressed against his bottom lip. 

“Take your time,” he said quietly. He poked his tongue out to lap at a bead of precome. “I’ve got all night.”

Oikawa groaned as Iwaizumi closed his mouth over the head of his dick. He pressed in another finger and scissored them, pumping in and out, spreading them as far as his body would allow. “It’s three in the morning, Hajime," he said, voice strained. "We don’t actually have all night.”

Iwaizumi popped off long enough to say, “Technicality.” Then he was sinking deeper onto Oikawa’s cock, sucking as he descended. Oikawa threw his head back and moaned, unrestrained, devoid of shame.

Hearing those sounds in Oikawa’s voice again felt like coming home. He hadn’t realized exactly how badly he’d missed this until those moans were in his ears and the taste of Oikawa was on his tongue.

Oikawa kept working his fingers in and out, the squelch of lube belying his eagerness. Iwaizumi slid his hand up Oikawa’s thigh, felt for Oikawa’s fingers, and slipped one of his own in alongside them. 

He pushed in slowly, dragging a low groan from Oikawa. He kept his mouth moving, sucking gently as he rubbed inside of Oikawa, prodding, searching until he found the spot that made Oikawa jolt beneath him.

Oikawa made a choked noise and withdrew his fingers. Iwaizumi replaced them with his own, pulling out before again pressing inside, the slide smoothed by leftover lube. Oikawa’s hand threaded through Iwaizumi’s hair, pulling a little too sharply. Iwaizumi shoved his fingers in deeper and Oikawa’s body was rocked by another sudden spasm.

“Hajime,” he said, the name breathed on an exhale. “That’s enough.”

Iwaizumi pulled off of Oikawa’s cock, a thread of saliva stretching with him. “You sure?” He twisted his fingers, spread them slightly, and was rewarded with another sharp twitch.

“I’m sure,” snapped Oikawa, nudging at him with the heel of his foot. “Back off.”

Iwaizumi smirked up at him and did so, backing away as he sat up. Oikawa started to move forward but paused, his brow furrowing. He licked his lips and peered up at Iwaizumi, a fleeting shadow of vulnerability passing over his face.

“I can’t ride you the way I'd like to,” said Oikawa quietly. He rubbed absently at his knee. “I can’t kneel like that anymore. But I can try and-” 

“Shut up, Shittykawa,” said Iwaizumi.

Oikawa stopped talking, blinking at him in surprise.

Iwaizumi crawled forward and pushed Oikawa onto his back again, hovering over him with his hands planted on either side of Oikawa’s shoulders. “Hand me the lube.”

Oikawa did so without comment. Iwaizumi sat up on his knees long enough to slick himself up. Then he tossed the lube to the side and dropped onto his hands again. 

Iwaizumi reached down to line himself up, the head of his dick nudging against Oikawa. “You still sure?”

“Shut up and fuck me.” The order was breathless, slightly playful. 

Iwaizumi smiled a little as he pushed his way inside.

He went slowly, giving Oikawa time to adjust. The fit was tight, and Oikawa squeezed around him with every inch gained. Oikawa gripped the sheets on either side of him, jaw clenched.

“You alright, Oikawa?”

He shook his head and Iwaizumi froze.

Oikawa peeled his eyes open and gazed up at him. “Don’t call me that. Not here.” 

It took Iwaizumi a moment too long to realize what he meant. When he did, he dipped down for a kiss. Oikawa’s tongue teased at his lips, and when he pulled back, Iwaizumi said, “You alright, Tooru?”

“Yes.” Oikawa blinked up at him, contentment settling over his face. “I’m good.”

Iwaizumi redirected his kisses to the side of Oikawa’s neck and he gave one last push, his hips smacking against Oikawa’s ass. Oikawa gasped but ground down, seeking more sensation.

“Hajime.” Oikawa took Iwaizumi’s face in his hands, coaxing his head up. He held his gaze, his brows furrowing again, that wrinkle reappearing on his forehead. His cheeks were red and he was a little breathless as he said, “Tell me again. Tell me you won’t leave.”

Iwaizumi’s chest ached. 

It hurt, but he could fix it. He _would_ fix it, and he would never hurt Oikawa again.

“I’m never leaving you, Tooru,” said Iwaizumi. “I promise.”

Oikawa released his face, his hands sliding over his chest and circling around to grip at his back. He bucked his hips upward, the friction making Iwaizumi groan.

“Fuck me, Hajime.” 

A flurry of expletives weighed on Iwaizumi’s tongue but he swallowed them down, choosing instead to seal his lips against Oikawa’s as he pulled his hips back, his cock nearly sliding free, and thrust back in. 

Oikawa jolted beneath him, muffling his moan into Iwaizumi’s mouth.

Iwaizumi dipped past Oikawa’s lips, tasting his tongue, and then slammed forward again. He hit a steady rhythm of thrusts, Oikawa pushing up to meet him, his nails digging into Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Being surrounded by Oikawa like this, in every way, was intoxicating. Iwaizumi didn’t know how he’d lived without it for two years. He hoped he’d never have to live without Oikawa again.

Oikawa’s left leg hooked over Iwaizumi’s waist, dragging him even closer. The press of flesh against flesh was overwhelming. All Iwaizumi could see or feel or taste was Oikawa.

“Hajime.” The name was forced between gasps, spoken into Iwaizumi’s lips. 

Iwaizumi reached between them and wrapped his hand around Oikawa’s cock, squeezing once before beginning to stroke. 

Oikawa’s leg fell away from Iwaizumi’s waist and dropped to the side, spreading him open more widely for Iwaizumi’s thrusts, giving Iwaizumi better access to his cock.

Iwaizumi pumped him quickly, setting the timing to match the roll of his hips, brushing his thumb across the head of Oikawa’s cock on his upstrokes.

Oikawa’s hands dragged over Iwaizumi’s shoulders, falling to grip at his arms. His fingers were vice-tight, and Iwaizumi stroked him more quickly.

Oikawa’s lips shaped around a moan. He threw his head back, shoved his hips up against Iwaizumi, and came with a cry of lust and need and relief.

Iwaizumi fucked him through it, gradually slowing until he was still, with Oikawa’s tight heat pulsing around him. He traced his fingers along Oikawa’s cheekbone, leaving a small smear of come.

Oikawa blinked his eyes open, his lids heavy. He circled his hand around Iwaizumi’s wrist and took Iwaizumi’s finger into his mouth, sucking it clean. He released him and said, “Go ahead.”

Iwaizumi rested his forehead against Oikawa’s sweat-slick shoulder. He took a minute just to breathe, just to appreciate the closeness between them. Then he started thrusting again, gripping onto Oikawa’s hip for leverage, speeding up his pace as he sought his own release.

It arrived in a hot, static burst of pleasure as Oikawa pulled at his hair and bucked up against him. He gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and growled Oikawa’s name. 

When the shockwaves of pleasure subsided, Iwaizumi rolled to the side and sprawled onto his back, fighting to catch his breath. He was aware of Oikawa fidgeting beside him, readjusting, and then creeping closer. A long arm draped over Iwaizumi’s waist and Oikawa’s breath tickled his ear.

“Just as skilled as ever,” murmured Oikawa. “Have you been practicing?”

“No,” said Iwaizumi. It was the truth. In Kyoto he’d been too afraid to get close to anyone, because he’d thought if Oikawa decided to come after him, he’d kill anyone close to Iwaizumi out of spite. 

Oikawa hummed and kissed Iwaizumi’s jaw. “Good.” He laid back against the pillows, his fingers idly tracing over Iwaizumi’s stomach. “I’ll go clean myself up. Don’t go anywhere.”

He shifted away but Iwaizumi reached out, grabbing his wrist. “Wait.”

Oikawa paused, looking over his shoulder.

“There was a witness at the last murders,” he said. It was something he should have told Oikawa when he’d arrived, but he’d gotten hopelessly distracted. “She saw the killer. There’s a sketch in the file. They must have called in one of the sketch artists to talk to her. If it’s someone you know then you might recognize him.”

Oikawa pondered that information. His vague contentment hardened into steel. “Do you know him?”

“I didn’t look,” said Iwaizumi. “I stole the file when I took Kyoutani’s things. I brought it for you.”

Oikawa smiled, sharp but pleased. “Show me.”

  
  
  
  
Oikawa recognized the man in the sketch. To Iwaizumi’s surprise, he knew him, as well. 

It wasn’t particularly well-drawn, and not quite accurate. There were clear inconsistencies, and it was made more difficult because it was only a profile view, the side of his face that Yachi Hitoka had seen.

Still, Iwaizumi knew him immediately.

He and Oikawa stared at the picture for too long, their silence a product of mutual surprise.

At length, Iwaizumi said, “Do you think anyone else knows?”

Oikawa shook his head, slowly. “No. I don’t think so.”

Someone rapped at the office door, three sharp knocks. Both of them looked up from where they were bent over the desk, staring at the picture.

“What?” said Oikawa, raising his voice.

“It’s me.” 

Matsukawa.

“Come in.”

There was the beep of the entered code and the door swung inward. Matsukawa took a step inside, studying them with a flat expression. Oikawa’s shirt hung open to reveal a slice of his tattoos, and Iwaizumi hadn’t bothered with a shirt at all. 

Matsukawa didn’t appear surprised by their state of disarray. “Sawamura is here. He’s looking for Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi had expected Sawamura to conclude that he’d been the burglar. He just hadn’t expected him to show up so quickly.

“Tell Sawamura he’s not here.”

“I did,” said Matsukawa. “He wants your permission to search the premises. He said if you’ve got nothing to hide then you don’t have a reason to refuse. He said if you don’t allow it then he’ll come back with a search warrant.”

“He’s bluffing,” said Iwaizumi. “He thinks I broke into the station, but he can’t prove it. I was careful. They don’t have enough to arrest me on.”

Oikawa considered that. “Tell Sawamura that when he comes back with that warrant, we’ll talk. Otherwise I don’t want to see him on my property again without a good reason.”

Matsukawa nodded and took a step back.

“Oh, and Mattsun?” added Oikawa. “Once you’ve done that, find Yahaba and tell him Kyouken-chan will be coming home soon.”

Matsukawa nodded again, this time with a small smile. He left the office and Oikawa sighed, flipping the file shut on the sketch of the suspect.

“Kyoutani will have to wait until we take care of this,” said Oikawa. “I’ll call Kuroo. He knows the value of good information. I’ll tell him who’s been killing people in return for getting Kyoutani released. I already owe him for you and Kindaichi. I don’t want to get any further in his debt.”

“What are we going to do?”

Oikawa’s smile was carnivorous. “We’re going to eliminate the problem.”

  
  
  
  
  


*********

**TWO YEARS AGO**

*********

 

 

 

Kyoutani cleaned up his own bloody mess. Yahaba tried to help him, but Oikawa wouldn’t allow it.

When it was done, and the chunk of flesh had been neatly wrapped and tucked away, Oikawa sent Kyoutani to his room to wait for Mizoguchi to arrive. Seijoh’s personal doctor would make sure the wound didn’t get infected, but that was all. He would do nothing to alter the ragged shape of the cut, which would heal gruesomely.

Kyoutani had shrugged off his jacket and wrapped his hand in it. His gold-plated gun was on display, tucked against his left side. Iwaizumi realized that gun had killed someone only a few hours before. 

Yahaba put a hand on Kyoutani’s shoulder as he walked him out, and it was a testament to the level of pain that Kyoutani must have been suffering that he didn’t even shake it off.

Blood dripped in his wake, soaking through the makeshift bandage. Iwaizumi shut the door behind them, stepping around the bloody trail.

When the two of them were left alone, the tense line of Oikawa’s shoulders fell. The difference was miniscule, but Iwaizumi noticed the subtle lowering of an impenetrable defense.

He paced across the office to stand behind Oikawa, cautiously reaching out to grip his shoulder. He half-expected to be smacked away, but when Oikawa raised a hand, it was only to place it over Iwaizumi’s. His fingers were cold.

“I should’ve killed him,” said Oikawa. “He’s endangering the entire syndicate. Fukurodani wanted you, but now they’ll be indiscriminate. They’ll just want blood.”

“No,” said Iwaizumi. “You did the right thing.”

Oikawa shook his head, but didn’t argue. “I kept saying I wanted a war. I was willing to start one for you, but now that it’s staring me in the face, I have to stop it.”

Iwaizumi squeezed his shoulder, lightly, then slipped his hand up to card through Oikawa’s hair. Oikawa leaned back into the touch, eyes slipping closed. “I’ve been telling you that for two weeks. You should listen to me more often.”

“I probably should,” said Oikawa, without a hint of sarcasm. “You’re my advisor, after all. If I can’t listen to you then I can’t listen to anyone.”

Iwaizumi wasn’t quite sure when he’d earned that title, but he found he didn’t mind it. 

“I have to call Kuroo,” murmured Oikawa. “That bastard is going to be so smug about this. I hate admitting he was right.” 

Iwaizumi curled his fingers in thick hair, gently, and Oikawa sighed.

“I’ll have to meet with Fukurodani after all,” said Oikawa. He peeled his eyes open and looked up at Iwaizumi. “I’ll take them Kyoutani’s apology and hope they’ll be willing to let it slide. While I’m there I’ll have to bargain for your life, too. I hate groveling.”

“Then don’t,” said Iwaizumi. “I’ll go with you and do my own groveling.”

Oikawa shook his head and sat up straight. His hair slipped through Iwaizumi’s fingers. “You’re not going. Did you forget they’re trying to kill you? Walking into the middle of them is the worst idea.”

“I think it’s the best idea,” said Iwaizumi. He perched on the edge of Oikawa’s desk, facing him. He fleetingly thought of the blood that had been dribbled there a few minutes before and quickly pushed it out of his mind. “Kuroo can talk to them first. If they know I’m coming to atone they won’t kill me. I can apologize to their boss myself and hope for the best. That will be a show of trust from you. It will make them more receptive to working with us about the Kyoutani situation.”

“Or they’ll just shoot you in the head.”

“I don’t think they will.”

“But you don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t know that. I still think it’s the best idea.” He folded his arms and added, “You said before it’s best that no one knows about… about _this_. You’ve already gone too far out of your way to protect me. It’s suspicious. If you make it seem that you’re willing to risk my safety then that will be for the best in the long run.”

“In the long run,” repeated Oikawa with a frown. “Assuming you survive all the way to the long run.”

“I don’t plan to die anytime soon.”

“No one ever does.”

“I trust you,” said Iwaizumi. The absolute honesty of the statement was frightening. “And you trust Kuroo. Talk to him, and if the thinks he can work it out, we’ll go meet with them.”

Oikawa sighed. He rested a hand on Iwaizumi’s knee, absently rubbing his thumb back and forth. 

Iwaizumi had thought what happened between them a short while before had been only a product of lust. This, though – these absent touches and casual affections – suggested otherwise. It made his stomach twist with both nerves and pleasure. 

“I’ll call him. Stay here with me.”

Iwaizumi slipped his fingers through Oikawa’s. “Always.” 


	16. Chapter 16

The following night, Kuroo showed up at Seijoh at half past eight, unusually solemn. Iwaizumi had expected to see Kozume with him, but Kuroo had chosen to bring Yaku instead. Iwaizumi recognized the name, but he didn’t think he’d ever met him before. Yaku was small and unimposing, but held himself with a subtle ferocity that Iwaizumi respected.

It was only when they were in Oikawa’s car, on the way to their destination, that he remembered Yaku was Nekoma’s cleaner.

Kuroo expected someone to die that night.

Oikawa and Kuroo were both talkers. Iwaizumi had learned that a long time ago, and it had been reconfirmed during Nekoma and Fukurodani’s recent visit to Aoba Johsai. Despite that, the ride across the city was nearly silent. 

It wasn’t until they were five minutes away that Kuroo spoke.

“Are you sure about this?” he said. He stared out the window, but his gaze was fixed.

Oikawa looked at Iwaizumi, a silent request.

“The girl was the only survivor of any of the murders,” said Iwaizumi. He flipped through his mental file. “The only reason she lived was because he didn’t expect her to be there. She’s Adachi’s bastard daughter, so she doesn’t have his name and doesn’t live at his house. She was only visiting. She told the police – and me – that she saw the killer. The sketch was definitely him.”

Kuroo sighed, and his shoulders slumped a little lower. “I can’t believe it. After everything I’ve done for him, I just can’t.”

Oikawa and Iwaizumi shared a look. This time Oikawa was the one who spoke.

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, his voice low. “He only killed on Seijoh and Shiratorizawa territory. He avoided Nekoma, and maybe that was out of respect for you. I don’t know. I still haven’t figured out what his motive was.”

The car pulled to a smooth stop in the middle of a city block, in front of a bar with flashing fluorescent lights. 

“I guess we can ask him,” said Yaku, “before he dies.”

It was on that ominous note that the four of them exited the car. Kuroo murmured instructions to the driver before the vehicle pulled away from the curb. 

The small group lingered on the sidewalk, staring through the large glass windows of the bar. There were a decent number of customers inside, but business would probably pick up as the night wore on. Iwaizumi glanced at Kuroo, who’d tilted his head back to stare at the second-story window above them. 

“Well?” said Yaku. “Stop standing around and let’s get this over with.”

Kuroo sighed, but took Yaku’s advice. He stepped through the front door and the others followed.

The bar was the base of operations for Fukurodani. Much like Bokuto, it was bright and loud and full of energy. The left side of the building was devoted to a cluster of pool tables, about half of them occupied. Against the right wall was a spread of dartboards. In between were closely packed tables. 

Kuroo picked his way through, dodging a pair of laughing patrons who were bordering on obnoxious. Iwaizumi thought he was heading for the bartender, but Kuroo disregarded him in favor of the man sitting on a stool at the very end of the bar, watching the room with apparent boredom. 

“Konoha,” said Kuroo. “I need to talk to Bo. He upstairs?” 

Konoha raised a brow. “He didn’t say you were coming by.”

“I didn’t tell him. Is he here or not?”

Konoha tilted his head to take in the rest of Kuroo’s group. His eyes lingered on Oikawa a little too long. “Is something going on?”

“Is he here,” said Kuroo through his teeth, “or not?”

One second stretched into several, and Iwaizumi thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then, finally, Konoha said, “Yeah, he’s in his office.”

Kuroo started toward the other end of the bar without a word. Iwaizumi turned to follow, aware of Konoha’s eyes on the back of his head. 

Kuroo pushed through a door behind the bar that wasn’t locked. He led them through a short corridor and up a wooden set of stairs that creaked beneath their weight. 

Iwaizumi expected to see more Fukurodani members, but the second floor appeared to be vacant. Unlike Oikawa, it seemed Bokuto wasn’t concerned about security. Iwaizumi wondered if he was too trusting or just a little stupid.

They reached a plain door secured by a simple deadbolt. There was no keypad or scanner of any kind. Iwaizumi exchanged a look with Oikawa, who appeared personally offended by Bokuto’s lack of vigilance.

“Yaku, watch the door,” said Kuroo. “I don’t think he’ll try to run, but if he does, stop him.”

Yaku nodded and obediently took up a post by the door, his back against the wall and his arms folded.

Kuroo pounded on the door. “Bo, you here?”

Bokuto’s response was audible, but too muffled for Iwaizumi to decipher. 

Either Kuroo knew what he was saying or didn’t care. He opened the door – unlocked, like the last one – and the three of them stepped inside.

When Konoha had said Bokuto was in his office, Iwaizumi had assumed that it would be similar to the office from which Oikawa conducted his Seijoh business.

That assumption was incorrect.

It was more of a lounge than an office. There was a pair of well-padded recliners in the corner and a plush couch beneath the window. A large flat-screen television stretched along one wall, flashing with a too-loud volleyball match. 

There was no desk, or any other indication that some type of work was done here.

Iwaizumi knew how much effort Oikawa put into running Seijoh. He wondered how Fukurodani was staying afloat.

“Kuroo!” said Bokuto, loudly enough to be heard over the blaring television. “I didn’t know you were coming, you should’ve called! Oikawa and Iwaizumi, too! Hey hey, make yourselves at home. I’ll have Konoha bring us up some drinks. What would you like?”

Kuroo’s face was tight, like he was in pain. “We’re not here to hang out, Bo. We need to talk.”

Bokuto tilted his head. “Talk about what?”

“Can you turn the match off?”

For the first time, a flicker of unease touched Bokuto’s face. “Oh. Yeah, sure.” He padded across the room, glancing back at them over his shoulder. The tv was mounted so high that he had to go up on his toes to reach it. The screen went black, and in the absence of noise, a sense of foreboding settled into the atmosphere. Bokuto clearly sensed it, but tried to shake it off with a forced grin. “Hey ‘Kaashi, look. Oikawa is here. Akaashi said you would never come to visit, even though you said you would.”

“It doesn’t count, Bokuto-san,” said Akaashi. He sat on the corner of the couch, a cigarette in hand. His jacket was discarded over the arm of the couch and the top button of his shirt was undone. He wore the same straps around his shoulders that Seijoh members did, securing a handgun against the left side of his chest. He took a drag of smoke and exhaled out the open window. “He’s not here for a visit.”

Bokuto frowned at him and looked back at Kuroo. “What’s going on?”

Kuroo shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but Iwaizumi barely caught the motion from the corner of his eye. His focus was on Akaashi, who watched them with sharp understanding.

Akaashi knew why they were here.

“You might want to sit down, Bo,” said Kuroo.

He’d reached out, but Bokuto smacked his hand away.

“Stop talking down to me. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Kuroo swallowed, took a breath to brace himself, and still didn’t say anything. He glanced sideways at Oikawa.

“Do you remember when you were at the club,” said Oikawa, “and I told you about all the killings on Seijoh territory?”

Bokuto nodded.

“Well it happened again,” said Oikawa. “And we know who did it.”

Bokuto perked up. “Great! Who was it? It wasn’t Ushijima, right? I told you it wasn’t him, he wouldn’t be crazy enough to do something like that.”

“No,” said Oikawa. “It wasn’t Ushijima.”

Across the room, Akaashi tapped out his cigarette and dropped it into a glass ashtray. He rose and slowly made his way over, taking up his position at Bokuto’s right hand. He stood with his arms at his sides, ostensibly at ease.

But Iwaizumi saw the tension in the lines of his face, the way Akaashi’s eyes darted between them and then back to Bokuto.

“Akaashi,” said Kuroo. “Tell Bokuto who’s been killing people.”

Bokuto turned to him. “’Kaashi? I didn’t know you knew, why didn’t you tell me?”

Akaashi’s flat stare remained on Kuroo. When he spoke, his voice was icy. “That’s what you came here to do, Kuroo-san. I won’t do it for you.”

Bokuto looked back and forth between them, clearly confused.

“It was Akaashi,” said Iwaizumi. They all looked to him, silence falling among them like a grim curtain. “He killed twenty-six people in cold blood. Nearly half of them were under the age of eighteen. Two of them were five years old.”

Akaashi stared through him. His eyes were hollow, completely lacking emotion. There wasn’t a flicker of regret to be found.

Bokuto laughed once, the sound forced and awkward. He looked around at them, waiting for someone to laugh with him, to admit that this was a joke. When no one did, his face grew serious. “Don’t joke about that,” he said, his brow knitting as he addressed Iwaizumi. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s the truth, Bo,” said Kuroo quietly. He was watching Akaashi as well, likely waiting for him to lash out or try to flee. “Someone saw him. He did it.”

“This isn’t funny, Kuroo.”

“It’s not supposed to be funny. I’m telling you, he-”

“Shut up,” snapped Bokuto. There was more ferocity behind the words than Iwaizumi had heard from him, more than he’d thought Bokuto was capable of. “Akaashi didn’t kill anybody. He wouldn’t do that. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but if this is why you came here then just get out.”

“Bo, you’ve got to listen to me.”

“Get _out_ , Kuroo.”

“It’s fine, Bokuto-san,” said Akaashi. His voice was as flat and inflectionless as his expression. “He’s right. I did it.”

“Not you too, ‘Kaashi. Whatever joke this is supposed to be, it’s not-”

“Bokuto-san.” This time Akaashi spoke a little more loudly, his voice edged with iron. “You know I don’t play jokes on you. Kuroo-san is correct. I apologize for keeping it from you.”

Bokuto took two unsteady steps back, shaking his head. “Stop it, ‘Kaashi.”

Akaashi looked to Kuroo. “Did you only come here to kill me or would you like to ask questions first?”

Iwaizumi’s heart hammered against his chest. He’d thought the murders themselves had been horrifying, but Akaashi’s response was even worse. Akaashi acted as if the blood staining his hands didn’t concern him. He spoke as if he was completely immune to the things he’d done.

Akaashi Keiji was terrifying.

“Why?” said Kuroo. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but it was the only word he could manage. 

Akaashi sighed and slid his eyes toward Bokuto, whose face had gone completely blank. “The men I killed,” said Akaashi quietly, “were frequent participants of Fukurodani’s gambling trade. They cheated and stole money from Bokuto-san.” His brows twitched and he looked away from Bokuto, focusing his steady stare on Oikawa instead. “They should have been punished for their deception. I think you would agree to that, Oikawa-san. They should have suffered some consequences, but Bokuto-san refused. He does not kill. Others saw that there would be no punishment for such theft, so they attempted to do the same. It got out of control.” Akaashi sighed. “I asked Bokuto-san to do something about it. He would not.”

“’Kaashi,” said Bokuto quietly. He looked as if someone had slapped him.

“They blatantly disrespected Bokuto-san,” said Akaashi, “and others were beginning to do the same. A lesson needed to be taught. I killed the men for their crimes, and I killed their families as a reminder to those who may consider stealing from Fukurodani. It has been largely successful. There has been no more theft since the second family.”

“If it stopped after the second time,” said Iwaizumi numbly, “why did you kill more?”

“I like to be thorough, Iwaizumi-san. I don’t leave loose ends.”

“’Kaashi, why are you saying this?” said Bokuto. His face was still slack. He looked lost. “Stop it.”

“I’m saying it because it is true,” said Akaashi. “I apologize, Bokuto-san. I know you do not condone killing. I did what I felt was necessary. They were taking advantage of your benevolence and it was unacceptable.”

“’Kaashi…”

“You went against your _Kumicho_ ’s orders,” said Kuroo, “and you killed men from other syndicates without permission. Not to mention the children. You know what kind of punishment is waiting for you.”

Akaashi nodded once. “I understand.”

“You know,” said Kuroo, “I sent you here to work for Bo because I thought you would take care of him. You were the only one I trusted to do it.”

“I did take care of him,” said Akaashi. The first hint of emotion slipped into his voice, a touch of heat. “I made his position more secure. I earned him more respect. I would kill a hundred more men, if necessary. I did the job you gave me, and I did it well.”

“You’re fucking insane,” said Kuroo. He looked a little awed, and a little horrified. 

“This has gone on long enough,” said Oikawa. “Bokuto, you know what has to be done. You’re in charge of him. You should be the one to do it.”

Bokuto’s eyes snapped to him, wide and wild. “No way. This isn’t… no, I can’t… I’m not hurting Akaashi. I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Fine,” said Oikawa. He didn’t appear surprised. “Hajime.”

Dread swelled in Iwaizumi’s gut like a morbid balloon. He knew what Oikawa was asking, and it scared him.

What terrified him even more was that he immediately moved to obey.

He tucked a hand beneath his jacket and pulled out one of the guns Oikawa had given him earlier that day, a matte black 9mm. His hand fit snugly around the grip as he raised it in front of him, pointed directly at Akaashi.

“No, no, _no_ …”

The whisper was Bokuto’s. It sounded desperate, but Iwaizumi didn’t look at him. His focus was reserved for Akaashi, who stared back at the gun without fear.

Oikawa’s fingers brushed Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Do it.”

Iwaizumi’s heart did an unpleasant flip. His finger dropped to caress the trigger and then Bokuto leaped in front of him, arms wide, blocking Akaashi from sight.

“Stop it!” Bokuto shouted. “Stay away from Akaashi!”

“Move out of the way,” said Kuroo. His voice was rough, almost a growl. “It has to be done. He killed _kids_ , Bo.”

“I won't let you hurt him!”

“Bokuto-san, please.” Akaashi’s hand curled around Bokuto’s arm as he tried to pull him aside. “It’s fine. I knew this would happen. Just look away.”

“No,” said Bokuto, his voice raw. “I won’t, ‘Kaashi.”

Bokuto’s devotion was admirable, but inconvenient. 

Someone rapped at the door, fracturing the suffocating tension. Konoha stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He took in the scene with a sweep of sharp eyes, lingering on the gun in Iwaizumi’s hand. “Bokuto-san, the police are around. There’s a cruiser parked at the end of the block. Whatever you’re doing, wrap it up quickly.”

Iwaizumi’s heart was already racing, but at the mention of the police it stuttered into overdrive. He feared he would go into cardiac arrest before this situation could be resolved. Bokuto swallowed, his eyes flitting between Konoha and Iwaizumi, whose aim hadn’t wavered, despite his subdued panic.

“I can take care of the police,” said Iwaizumi, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “If there’s only one of them then they don’t have a good reason to be here.”

Oikawa considered, then nodded. “Be careful, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi tucked his gun away and stepped past Konoha into the hall. Yaku was still there, waiting patiently. Iwaizumi made his way back down through the bar and out onto the sidewalk. 

The night was a little warmer than he remembered, but that was probably because there was more adrenaline in his veins than blood. He’d known whatever happened at Fukurodani wouldn’t be good. He’d known Akaashi would have to die for his crimes. He knew what belonging to the yakuza meant.

He knew all of this, and he’d made his choice anyway. He’d chosen Oikawa, and this time he wasn’t going to let himself regret it.

He saw the police cruiser at the end of the street. The officer hadn’t chosen to park directly in front of the bar, which was a smart move. He’d gone for discretion. It was lucky that Konoha had noticed him when he did. 

The officer had almost reached the bar, even walking at his steady pace.

Iwaizumi wasn’t surprised to see Sawamura. It seemed like fate.

He made sure Sawamura noticed him, then ducked into the alley between the bar and the neighboring building, away from the crowd of people milling about on the sidewalk. He took about fifteen paces into the gray shadows and then turned.

Sawamura had followed him, as he’d expected.

“Sawamura.”

“Iwaizumi.”

They watched each other too long, a silent showdown that neither of them would concede.

“I thought you would be in hiding,” said Sawamura, “after breaking into the station.”

“I have no reason to hide. I didn’t break into anything.”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you did it.”

“Prove it.”

Sawamura’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He wasn’t dressed in his uniform, but his badge was latched to his belt, right beside his gun. “You’re a real piece of work, Iwaizumi. You were a good officer once. I don’t know what happened to you.”

Iwaizumi knew exactly what had happened.

“What are you doing here, Sawamura?”

“I’ve had someone watching Aoba Johsai since last night. I knew you were there. I just had to wait for you to leave. They followed you here. What are you doing at Fukurodani?”

“That’s none of your business. You don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, Sawamura. You don’t have any reason to follow me.”

“I know something is happening here. I intend to find out what it is.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth was open, ready with a retort.

Above them, from the second-floor window of Bokuto’s office, came a short, subdued noise that sounded like a cough.

Any common citizen wouldn’t have had a second thought about it.

But Iwaizumi knew what the sound was, and so did Sawamura.

Sawamura’s eyes went wide. He looked up toward the window in alarm, and taking his eyes off of Iwaizumi was a mistake. 

The noise sounded again, the discreet cough of a gun equipped with a top-grade silencer.

Iwaizumi had a fairly good idea what was happening. If he had to guess, he would assume Oikawa had shouldered the responsibility of disposing of Akaashi. Bokuto certainly wasn’t going to do it, and Oikawa had more reason than anyone to dole out the punishment. 

Even if Oikawa wasn’t the one performing the execution, the fact that he was there while it happened would make him equally responsible. Oikawa’s presence alone was incriminating. It was enough to send him to prison for life if he was caught, and from the gleam in Sawamura’s eye, his apprehension was inevitable.

Iwaizumi dipped a hand into his jacket again and, for the second time that night, pulled his gun. It felt different pointing it at Sawamura. He hadn’t wanted to shoot Akaashi, but it was business. 

This wasn’t business. This was murder.

“Iwaizumi,” said Sawamura. He was eerily calm. “What are you doing?”

“You need to leave,” said Iwaizumi. “This is yakuza business. It doesn’t concern you.”

Sawamura’s fingers twitched toward his own gun, but Iwaizumi took a warning step forward and his hand fell away. 

“Yakuza business,” Sawamura repeated. He was impressively unruffled, considering his situation. “You really have gone back to them, then.”

“Yeah,” said Iwaizumi. “I have.”

“Do I need to tell you how stupid that is?”

“I already know.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“This is where I belong,” said Iwaizumi. “Seijoh is my home.”

There was another muffled sound from above them. Iwaizumi twitched, but kept his gun steady. He thought maybe Akaashi had chosen to struggle after all. There was no other reason that it would take three shots to put him down.

He had a momentary flicker of concern for Oikawa, but he suppressed it. His current circumstances didn’t allow him to think of anything aside from Sawamura.

“What’s happening upstairs, Iwaizumi?”

Iwaizumi exhaled a breath. He wondered if he was going to get out of this without either killing Sawamura or going to jail.

“We found the killer,” he said. He thought honesty was his best chance. “He confessed. He is being dealt with.”

Sawamura’s face finally cracked. Disgust bled through, tempered by disbelief. “Someone was just shot.”

“Someone was just killed,” Iwaizumi corrected. “Someone who killed twenty-six people. Someone who deserves to die.”

“That’s not your choice to make.”

“It is,” said Iwaizumi, “because it’s yakuza business. He was part of us and he committed his crimes against us, which means it’s our duty to dispose of him. The police can’t do everything, Sawamura. We both know if you’d caught him, he would’ve sat in a prison cell for the rest of his life. He deserved to die for what he did. This is true justice, not red tape and bureaucracy.”

“You don’t know anything about justice.”

“I know more about it than you do. The law isn’t always right.”

Sawamura’s jaw ticked. “Oikawa has brainwashed you.”

Iwaizumi’s fingers tightened so hard around the grip of his gun that it was almost painful. “Don’t talk about Oikawa. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“You’re saying he isn’t up there right now, murdering someone?”

“He has nothing to do with this,” Iwaizumi repeated. 

“You know you’re looking at life in prison for threatening me like this,” said Sawamura. “Are you really willing to give up your life for Oikawa Tooru?”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer that question, but he also didn’t lower his gun. That was answer enough.

“Do you remember what you told me back at the station,” said Iwaizumi, “when you convinced me to get involved in this mess? You said if you found _any possible way_ to prevent more murders, you'd do it. No matter what. You told me that's what a good man does, Sawamura. I might not be a good man, but I'm doing the right thing here. The murders will stop.It’s over.”

Sawamura considered him. His eyes were dark steel, his jaw set. “You think that justifies killing someone?” 

“I think no more families will be murdered,” said Iwaizumi. “Isn't that what's most important here?”

Their standoff continued, tension rising like the tide. Sawamura watched him with that hard stare, unflinching despite the gun in his face. 

Sawamura was the one to break the tripwire tension. “The killer,” he said, “was part of the yakuza?” His eyes were still cold steel, but his frown was one of uncertainty. 

“Yes.”

Sawamura looked up toward the window again. No more sounds had floated down. “Are you going to shoot me, Iwaizumi?”

“I’d rather not,” he said. “I’m just going to keep you here until they’re finished upstairs. Then you can arrest me. I won’t resist.”

Sawamura considered him. “The killer. How long would it have taken us to find him?”

Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes at the question. “What do you mean?”

“If you hadn’t broken in to steal the case notes. How long would it have taken the police to identify him?”

Iwaizumi’s arm was beginning to shake from exertion. Without lowering the barrel, he switched the gun to his other hand. He could shoot nearly as well with his left. “If he’d kept a low profile it could have been a while. A couple of months, maybe.”

“Do you think he would’ve killed anyone else during that time?”

Akaashi hadn’t said if his targets had been depleted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Sawamura sighed, and his shoulders slumped inward. “If the yakuza hadn’t handled him, the killing may have continued.”

“It’s possible.”

Sawamura seemed to be thinking deeply. He wasn’t even looking at Iwaizumi any longer, his gaze drifting somewhere to the side. 

“I don’t agree with what you’ve done here,” Sawamura said. “I don’t agree with anything that the yakuza does. It’s a criminal organization that needs to be eliminated. Still…” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, frowning down at the ground uncomfortably. “The yakuza prevented more people from dying. I don’t agree with their methods, but… this one time, maybe what they’ve done is for the greater good.” His expression was heavy, strained, as he finally looked at Iwaizumi. “I brought you into this. I wish I hadn’t. Still, you found the killer before I could. Your interference might have saved some lives.” He raked a hand through his hair. He looked like he was in pain. “I’m going to regret this, but… Just this once, I’ll let you go, Iwaizumi.” 

It was a strange thing for someone held at gunpoint to say, but Iwaizumi understood what he was offering. Sawamura was going to let him walk away from this. He should have latched onto the offer, but he asked, “Only me?”

“Your devotion to Oikawa is going to get you killed.”

“Maybe.”

Sawamura shook his head. “It makes me sick to see you like this, Iwaizumi. You were a good officer. You were a good friend.”

Iwaizumi felt a tug of something like regret. He shrugged it off.

“I’m going to drive away,” said Sawamura, “and pretend I was never here. Not because you’ve got a gun in my face, but because I think it’s the best thing to do right now. If the killer is gone, the city is a better place. It’ll be even better once the yakuza is shut down, which is something I plan to do. This is the last time I’ll have mercy on you, Iwaizumi. If you ever interfere with an investigation again I’ll bury you under the prison.”

If it had been anyone else, Iwaizumi wouldn’t have trusted a single word out of their mouth. He would have assumed it was a ploy to get him to lower his guard, so they could shoot him instead.

But this wasn’t anyone else. This was Sawamura, and he didn’t lie.

Slowly, Iwaizumi lowered his gun. Sawamura didn’t move.

“I don’t plan to interfere anymore. I plan to avoid the police as much as possible.”

“That’s in your best interest.”

Iwaizumi slipped his gun back beneath his jacket, fitting it snugly in its holster. Still, Sawamura didn’t reach for his own weapon.

“I still plan to prosecute you for breaking and entering,” said Sawamura, “if I find even a single shred of evidence that you were there.”

“You won’t find anything,” he said, “but good luck.”

“Watch your back, Iwaizumi. I will take down Seijoh. Now you’ll go down with them.”

Iwaizumi nodded. “Take care of yourself, Sawamura. Don’t dig your hole too deep. You may not be able to climb back out.”

Sawamura accepted the warning silently. He turned and emerged back onto the main street, amid the crowd of people who had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. 

Iwaizumi didn’t immediately move. He half-expected Sawamura to swoop back into the alley.

A couple of minutes crawled by, and finally Iwaizumi stirred. His first step almost sent him hurtling to the ground. His legs were numb beneath him, so stiff that he could barely walk. He shook himself, tried to push past the panic he’d suppressed ever since they’d arrived at Fukurodani, and went back into the bar.

No one stopped him when he stepped through the back door. His legs were shaky as he climbed the stairs, but he made it back to Bokuto’s office.

Yaku was no longer waiting outside. The hallway was empty. 

When he pushed open the door, the first thing he saw was blood.

It was a neat pool of crimson. Bokuto sat on the floor beside the morbid puddle, a gun cradled against his chest, his stare upturned toward Akaashi.

He wasn’t dead. 

The blood dripped freely from his right hand, which was no longer intact. Three of his fingers were missing, blown away by bullets that had scoured deep rivets into the wooden floor. 

Iwaizumi didn’t have to look far to find the missing fingers. They were discarded a pace away from Akaashi, shredded almost beyond recognition. A high caliber bullet must have been used.

He again looked at the gun in Bokuto’s hand and noted it was a .45.

That was the same weapon Akaashi had used for the murders.

Bokuto was muttering something, but Iwaizumi couldn’t make out the words until he drew nearer, stepping up beside Oikawa.

“Sorry, ‘Kaashi… I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_.”

“Bokuto refused to let us kill him,” said Oikawa quietly. “He and Kuroo compromised.”

“It’s quite alright, Bokuto-san,” said Akaashi. His voice was calm, if a little haggard. His posture was still perfect, though his face was pale. 

“What about the cops?” asked Kuroo. He addressed Iwaizumi, but couldn’t drag his eyes away from Akaashi’s mutilated hand.

“Gone,” said Iwaizumi. “They won’t be back tonight.”

Kuroo nodded, then stepped closer to kneel beside Bokuto. “You’ve got to calm down, Bo. You agreed to this.”

Bokuto just shook his head, eyes still stuck to Akaashi.

“You know you’re not finished,” said Oikawa pointedly. “He killed three families on my territory, but also one on Shiratorizawa’s. Since Ushijima isn’t here to speak for himself, I’ll do it for him. One more, Bokuto.”

Bokuto shook his head and gripped the gun more tightly. “No. Three is enough.”

“Cutting off both of his hands wouldn’t be enough,” said Oikawa. “Settling on this as a punishment for mass murder isn’t nearly enough, but since you and Kuroo outvoted me, you’re at least going to finish this _yubitsume_ properly.”

Iwaizumi thought of Kyoutani’s mangled fingers. That was true _yubitsume_. This was a perversion.

“One more, Bo,” said Kuroo, squeezing his shoulder. “If you don’t we’ll have to kill him.”

Bokuto made a choking noise that sounded suspiciously like a stifled sob.

“Bokuto-san, please stop being dramatic,” said Akaashi. He offered his maimed hand, blood dribbling from the gory wounds. Only his thumb and index finger remained. “Just do it.”

Bokuto stared at him, then firmly closed his eyes against the sight. “No.”

“Bokuto-san-”

“Give me your other hand.”

There was a beat of hesitation, then Akaashi calmly offered his left hand. No amount of composure could hide the trembling in his fingers.

Bokuto took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and clambered to his feet. He pressed the barrel of the gun against Akaashi’s hand. The metal bit into the knuckle that attached his pinkie.

“I’m sorry, ‘Kaashi.”

“It’s perfectly fine, Bokuto-san. Please just get on with it.”

Bokuto exhaled, paused, and then pulled the trigger.

The shot was a little louder now that Iwaizumi was in the room, but the silencer was still highly effective. He watched with morbid fascination as the bullet blew through Akaashi’s flesh, sending his gory, detached finger flopping onto the floor. A fresh spout of blood poured from his hand and Akaashi took a staggering step back. He closed his eyes against the pain, lips pressed tightly together. It took him a moment to compose himself, but when he did, he looked at Bokuto.

“Thank you for sparing my life, Bokuto-san. I am forever in your debt.”

His voice was weak, strained.

Still, Bokuto seemed to be suffering even more.

He slumped back into the floor, the gun clattering beside him. He buried his face in his hands and murmured a consistent stream of _Sorry, sorry, sorry_ under his breath like a mantra.

Oikawa sighed and nudged Iwaizumi’s arm. “Let’s go, Hajime. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

“That’s it?” said Iwaizumi quietly. “We’re just going to let him go?”

“He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be stuck to Bokuto like a parasite. There's nowhere else for him to go, not like that.”

“But we won’t kill him.”

Oikawa shook his head. He looked dissatisfied. “No. I insisted, but Bokuto won Kuroo over. Ultimately Bokuto has the authority to decide the punishment anyway, since Akaashi belongs to Fukurodani.”

Oikawa started toward the door and Iwaizumi followed a half-step behind. He looked over his shoulder just before they stepped into the hallway to see Akaashi collapse, finally succumbing to the pain and blood loss. Bokuto was beside him instantly, checking his pulse, yelling at Kuroo to call Fukurodani’s doctor.

“Besides,” said Oikawa, reclaiming Iwaizumi’s attention, “I still owe Kuroo, and I’ll need him to get Kyoutani. If I’d resisted too much it would have pissed him off and I could kiss our rekindled friendship goodbye.” He sighed and ran a thumb along the line of Iwaizumi’s jaw before starting toward the stairs. “Sacrifices must be made, Hajime. I don’t think Akaashi will be killing anyone else, do you?”

It was very unlikely, but still Iwaizumi couldn’t help but feel that true justice hadn’t been done. He’d told Sawamura that the killer had been disposed of, and he’d been confident that would be the outcome.

Instead Akaashi would live, while those twenty-six victims would rot in their graves. It wasn’t fair, but Iwaizumi supposed that wasn’t for him to decide. 

He was yakuza now, and that meant trusting his _Kumicho_ ’s judgment. 

  
  
  
  
  
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**TWO YEARS AGO**

****

*********

 

 

 

They went to Fukurodani the next day.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki had come along, but Oikawa had them wait outside. He didn’t want it to seem as if he was bringing along extra men for protection, though Iwaizumi knew he was at least slightly concerned for his safety. Kuroo said Fukurodani had extended an unbreakable offer of impunity for the time that they were there. Oikawa still hadn’t been confident, but Iwaizumi had encouraged him to go anyway. It was the only logical thing to do. They didn’t have many options.

They were led to a third-story room. There were no windows. It was void of furniture, except for a single chair in which sat the Fukurodani boss, with Kimura standing at his right hand. 

Iwaizumi had always referred to him as “the boss” in his head. He’d only learned five minutes before their arrival that the man’s name was Onishi. 

Kimura’s stare didn’t leave Iwaizumi, even as Onishi and Oikawa exchanged forced pleasantries. Oikawa’s tension crackled like lightning, but Iwaizumi thought he was the only one who noticed. The smile Oikawa plastered onto his face was almost believable, though Iwaizumi knew it was stretched too wide.

“It’s good to see you again, Onishi-san,” said Oikawa. He stood in front of Onishi, Iwaizumi slightly behind him. “If only it could have been under better circumstances.”

Onishi sat back in his chair and eyed the pair of them. He was over a decade older than Oikawa, a spatter of gray hair growing at his temples. His poker face was good, but Iwaizumi had so much experience reading Oikawa’s that he saw the touch of distaste in the lines of the man’s face.

He stepped closer to Oikawa, their elbows brushing.

“I’m glad to have you,” said Onishi. He grinned, and it was sheer bitterness. “It’s easier than having to go out and search for you.”

Iwaizumi felt the menace in the statement. Oikawa must have, as well, but he tried to play it off. 

“No need to search,” said Oikawa with a smile so forced that Iwaizumi could have winced. “I’m right here, Onishi-san. I’ve come to make amends. I’ve been told that one of my men has wronged you, and I wish for you to know it was not by my orders.”

“Do you mean the mad dog,” said Kimura quietly, “or the lap dog that follows wherever you go?”

Iwaizumi felt the burn of Kimura’ eyes drilling into him.

“Both, I suppose,” said Oikawa. His voice was still light, but it was careful. “The mad dog first.” He dipped a hand into his jacket and withdrew a folded handkerchief. “He sends his deepest regrets for his actions.”

He extended the offering, but neither of the men moved to take it.

“Do you think anything less than his life is going to erase his sins against Fukurodani?” said Onishi. 

Oikawa’s face turned to stone. He slid a fleeting glance at Iwaizumi, full of meaning, before slipping Kyoutani’s severed finger back into his pocket.

“Kuroo said you were willing to talk,” said Oikawa. The false cheer was gone. In its place was an arctic chill. “You told him you wanted to build bridges. Unless he lied to me, which I doubt, that means you lied to him.”

“Someone who murdered their way to the top of Seijoh will not lecture me about lies,” said Onishi. His voice was relatively inflectionless, but his mouth twisted with sick humor. “You should have seen this coming, Oikawa. Karma always comes around. You killed for your power, now you’ll be killed so someone else can take it.” 

He stood, and panic sizzled in Iwaizumi’s blood.

Oikawa tensed, but stood his ground. “That sounded very much like a threat, Onishi-chan,” he said, falling into a high, lilting tone. “Luckily for you, I can take a joke. Because surely you’re joking.”

“Your blatant disrespect for Fukurodani is disgusting,” said Onishi. His lips were peeled back, blunt teeth on display. “You’re not fit to lead. You’ve meddled with my plans and killed my men and you’re standing in my way. I’ll take Seijoh, and I’ll lead it better than you ever did.”

Onishi moved, fingers reaching for the front of his jacket. 

Iwaizumi was faster, and his hand slipped beneath his jacket first. His default response was no longer to reach for the nonexistent gun on his hip, the one that had been on a duty belt in the not-so-distant past.

Even with his newly forged instincts, the motion was useless.

He’d left his guns back at Aoba Johsai, determined to walk unarmed into Fukurodani so they would not perceive him as a threat. He’d called it a show of good faith. Oikawa had called it idiocy.

It was the most inconvenient time for Oikawa to have been right.

Iwaizumi’s hand fell away uselessly as Onishi pulled his gun, the silver barrel gleaming in the low light. It was large in his hands, the thick barrel of a .45.

Oikawa was armed, but he hadn’t moved. His eyes were stuck to the pistol. Iwaizumi didn’t have time to think. He knew he needed to do something, he didn’t know what, and he didn’t have time to think it through.

Luckily his body had been trained to react even when his mind could not.

He lunged forward on impulse, barreling toward the threat, slamming his shoulder into Onishi’s side.

A gunshot exploded by his ear, the sound deafening. 

Even more deafening was the sound of Oikawa’s scream.

Iwaizumi’s momentum took Onishi to the ground. He fell on top of him in a clumsy heap, the gun skittering away. 

Iwaizumi had never been a victim of tunnel vision. He had always been able to see his surroundings cleary, despite the intensity of any situation.

But now all he could see was Onishi, and his vision burned red.

His hands were at Onishi’s throat, squeezing, pulling up to slam Onishi’s head into the floor. Struggling hands clawed at Iwaizumi’s wrists, digging into the flesh, drawing blood, but he felt nothing. All he knew was rage, and the fluttering heartbeat under his palms. 

There was a twitch of motion behind him. Another gunshot rang out, this one muted by the ringing in his ears.

Someone screamed, but it wasn’t Oikawa, so he didn’t care.

Iwaizumi tightened his grip, digging his nails in as Onishi pulled at his hands, struggling to free himself. His eyes bulged, lips moving uselessly as he fought for breath.

“You son of a bitch,” snarled Iwaizumi, his own voice as loud in his ears as the slowing thump of Onishi’s pulse. “You won’t fucking _touch_ him.”

Iwaizumi squeezed again, and Onishi stopped fighting. His face scrunched up in the last sign of a struggle before his hands fell away, flopping to the floor on either side of him, his eyes rolling up and his lips darkening.

Onishi wasn’t breathing anymore, and Iwaizumi could no longer feel the weak thrum of a pulse beneath his fingers. Still he held on, rage making his breath come short, until he heard a distant, raspy, “ _Hajime?_ ”

He turned his head. The motion felt strangely rusty. 

Oikawa was on the floor a short distance away, one of his guns held loosely in his hand. His face was dangerously pale.

Iwaizumi’s fingers fell away from Onishi when he realized why.

Oikawa was lying in a pool of blood. The right leg of his pants was torn to tatters, and his knee was destroyed. The flesh was shredded, gaping open to reveal muscle and sinew and bone. 

Iwaizumi felt a surge of nausea. He’d seen grisly scenes like these in the field, but the victims had never been someone he cared about.

Oikawa raised a trembling finger to point over Iwaizumi’s shoulder.

Kimura was peeling himself off of the floor, one hand clutching a bloody shoulder, the other reaching for the pistol he’d fumbled when Oikawa had shot him.

Iwaizumi dove across the floor and seized Onishi’s gun. The grip was warm in his hand as he stood and turned, leveling the barrel at Kimura’s head.

Kimura stopped before he even reached his own weapon. He stood upright slowly, eyes on Iwaizumi, raising one hand in the air. 

The gun in Iwaizumi’s hand tracked the movements.

“Please,” said Kimura. “Onishi-san wanted this, not me. I didn’t have a choice, I didn’t want-”

_Bang_.

Kimura crumpled to the ground, blood blooming from the fresh bullet wound in his forehead.

The gun slipped through Iwaizumi’s fingers and clattered to the floor. He dropped to his knees beside Oikawa, staring at the open wound with abject horror. 

“Hajime.” Oikawa reached for him, shaking fingers curling around his wrist. “They must’ve heard the shots. They’ll be coming, they-”

On cue, the door to the room slammed open. Two men rushed in and paused just inside the doorway, gaping at the bloody scene.

Iwaizumi plucked the gun out of Oikawa’s limp hand and raised it in front of him. The men turned as one, dashing out of the room, shoving each other in their haste to get out.

Iwaizumi fumbled at his belt, yanking the buckle free and pulling it loose. He raised Oikawa’s mangled leg just enough to slide it underneath and Oikawa _screamed_.

“I’m sorry,” said Iwaizumi. The words were muted, falling from numb lips. “I’m sorry, Oikawa, I’m sorry…”

He fed the belt back through, only distantly realizing that his fingers were trembling nearly as badly as Oikawa’s. He cinched the makeshift tourniquet tight and Oikawa whimpered.

“You’ll be fine,” said Iwaizumi. He believed his own words because he didn’t have a choice. Oikawa had to be fine. Iwaizumi couldn’t think about what would happen if he wasn’t. “Makki and Mattsun are downstairs with the car. We’ll take you to Mizoguchi. He’ll fix this.”

“Hajime.” Oikawa’s voice was weak. His eyes were wet, but his jaw was still set. “We’re in the middle of Fukurodani. You can’t get me out of here like this.”

“Watch me.”

“Hajime, just-”

Iwaizumi knew what Oikawa was going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it. He shoved an arm beneath Oikawa’s shoulders, slid one more carefully beneath his knees, and gritted his teeth as he hefted him off of the ground.

Oikawa pawed at Iwaizumi’s chest, the closest approximation of flailing that he could manage in his state of weakness. A wail bled between his lips as Iwaizumi shifted his grip and his knee moved.

“I’m sorry,” said Iwaizumi again. Oikawa was heavy, and his size made him awkward cargo, but he Iwaizumi wasn’t leaving him. “I’ll get you out. Trust me.”

Oikawa’s head rolled to the side, his face pressing into Iwaizumi’s arm. “You’re the only one I do trust.”

Iwaizumi started toward the door. He half-feared there would be men waiting beyond, prepared to shoot them on sight, but the hallway was vacant. Iwaizumi headed toward the elevator, leaving a trail of blood behind.

Before they’d descended to the ground floor, Oikawa was unconscious. He was still breathing, barely, but he looked like a corpse.

Iwaizumi had never been more terrified. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this fic is over already. You guys have been so kind and supportive, and I'm really grateful for all the kudos and comments and feedback that you've left for me. Thank you all so much. <3

Two days later, Iwaizumi and Oikawa sat in the middle of a vacant Aoba Johsai. It was early afternoon, which meant the cleaning had been done and there were still a few hours of peace before the club reopened for the night.

Oikawa was drinking sake out of a glass tumbler. Iwaizumi had been served whiskey by an unenthusiastic Kunimi, but he hadn’t yet touched it. He was too preoccupied with Yahaba, who was sitting on the edge of one of the catwalks. Yahaba’s leg bounced up and down in a frantic rhythm, fingers drumming on the edge of the stage. His face was blank, but the dark rings under his eyes, which had become perpetual, belied his strain. 

Occasionally he would sniff, but it wasn’t nearly as often as it had been a few days before. Iwaizumi hoped he’d been cutting back on bad habits.

The front door of the club opened and Yahaba went rigid, head snapping toward the sound.

Kuroo strolled inside with a flourish and a maddening smirk.

Trailing a step behind him, wearing his signature scowl, was Kyoutani.

“Special delivery for Seijoh,” announced Kuroo, stepping aside as Kyoutani entered. “180 centimeters of bad attitude, topped off with a terrible bleach job. No refunds.”

Kyoutani glared at him, but he didn’t have much time to sulk.

Yahaba launched himself off of the stage and bounded across the room. For a fleeting second, Iwaizumi thought he was going to throw himself into an embrace.

Instead he threw a fist at Kyoutani’s face.

Kyoutani raised a hand and the blow glanced off of his palm, easily deflected. Yahaba seized the front of Kyoutani’s shirt and shook him.

“What the fuck, Kentarou?” shouted Yahaba, directly into his face. “I told you not to go on that fucking job by yourself!”

Kyoutani turned his head, staring off to the side.

Yahaba shook him again. “Look at me, you asshole. You were almost in fucking prison for the rest of your life. Do you even care?”

Kyoutani mumbled something, too quietly for Iwaizumi to hear.

Yahaba shoved him and Kyoutani stumbled back into the wall. “Fuck you.”

“Now, now, Yacchan,” said Oikawa, the chastisement amused. “Kyouken-chan has had a rough couple of months. Give him a break.”

“He doesn’t deserve a break,” snapped Yahaba. He eyed Kyoutani, sharply, and turned away. “Come on. You smell like you haven’t showered in a month. It’s gross.”

Iwaizumi expected Kyoutani to snap back at him, but he just scowled more deeply and followed. 

As they stepped past he heard Kyoutani mumble, “You’ve been using. You lost weight.”

“Shut up, Kentarou.”

They disappeared into the back of the club, the heavy door swinging shut behind them.

Kuroo was still standing by the door, a raised brow directed at Oikawa. “You’re welcome,” he said pointedly. “Do you know how much arguing I had to do to get him out that fast? I had to threaten to sue the entire city for falsely imprisoning him. You should’ve seen their faces when they went to fetch their evidence and realized everything was gone.” He smirked. “Captain Sawamura was furious. Nice job on that, Iwaizumi.”

Iwaizumi shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, sure.” 

“Thanks, Tetsu-chan,” said Oikawa with only a mild measure of sarcasm. “You’ve really saved the day.”

“As usual,” said Kuroo. He checked the time and said, “Let me know if you need anything else. I’m heading over to Fukurodani. Bo keeps rambling on about prosthetic fingers and I have to talk him out of it before he goes too far.”

Iwaizumi’s stomach lurched unpleasantly at the reminder of Akaashi, but he said nothing. 

“Alright then,” said Oikawa. “Come by sometime when we’re open. You’ll get the VIP treatment.”

“I’ll hold you to that offer,” said Kuroo. He tipped Oikawa a wink and left, a gust of warm air rushing inside in his wake.

Oikawa took another drink of sake and shook his head. “Kuroo is a slimy bastard, but somehow I still like him. How is that, Hajime?”

“Because you’re a slimy bastard too,” said Iwaizumi, finally reaching for his whiskey. It burned on the way down, but that was why he liked it. “Something about it is likeable.”

“You’d better be careful,” said Oikawa. He leaned against Iwaizumi’s shoulder with a grin. “That almost sounded like you’re saying you like me.”

“My mistake,” said Iwaizumi. “I misspoke.”

Oikawa heaved a dramatic sigh, but he was still smiling. “So rude, Hajime.”

“You’re rude.”

“But apparently you like me anyway,” said Oikawa. His eyes darted to the bar, where Kunimi had been leaning against the counter a few minutes before. He’d managed to slip away, leaving the two of them alone. Oikawa leaned closer and brushed his fingers along Iwaizumi’s jaw. 

Oikawa kissed him, and it was with surprising warmth.

When Oikawa pulled back, he said, “I’m glad you came home.”

Iwaizumi swallowed and looked down at his drink. “Me too,” he said, the words raw with honesty. 

“The case is over,” said Oikawa. 

The mention of it caught Iwaizumi off guard. They’d carefully avoided the subject for the past two days, since Akaashi had faced his punishment. “Yeah.”

“When are you leaving for Kyoto, then?” asked Oikawa.

Iwaizumi pushed his drink away and shifted in his chair, facing him more directly. “I told you I’m not leaving you again.”

Oikawa stared at him. It wasn’t with suspicion, but something close. Caution, perhaps. “You’ve told me that before. I’m afraid to believe you again.”

A pang of guilt twisted in Iwaizumi’s chest. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Oikawa shook his head. “I’m not saying it so you’ll apologize. I’m saying it so you’ll convince me.”

Iwaizumi tossed a glance over his shoulder, confirming they were alone. Then he cupped Oikawa’s face in his hands and kissed him. It was slow and deep, lips sliding against lips, the barest slip of tongue. He threaded his fingers into Oikawa’s hair and said, breath warm against his lips, “I would rather die than leave you, Tooru. I’d do anything for you.”

It was true, and two years before, that truth had terrified him. 

He’d been afraid of his commitment to Oikawa, afraid of what it would make him do. Sometime between then and now, after two years of living without Oikawa, he’d realized he didn’t care. He would do whatever was necessary. There wasn’t much he could do that was worse than what he’d done already.

He’d devoted himself to Oikawa a long time ago, and that hadn’t changed.

Oikawa considered him for another fleeting moment, and then he smiled.

It wasn’t his yakuza boss smile. It was the Tooru one.

“That’s good,” said Oikawa. He kissed Iwaizumi again and then reached for his sake. “Ushiwaka wants to meet with me on Friday and if I go by myself I’ll probably kill him. I need you to keep my temper in check.”

“I thought you needed an advisor,” said Iwaizumi. “Not a babysitter.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes. 

A door opened behind them and Kunimi wandered back to the bar, Kindaichi a few steps behind. Kindaichi raised a hand toward them and Iwaizumi nodded back.

“What’s Ushijima want to meet with you about?” said Iwaizumi.

“Apparently he’s jealous that Tetsu-chan and I are getting along so well,” scoffed Oikawa. “He wants to discuss some sort of alliance. He mentioned letting my guys push drugs on his territory, and letting his guys sell guns on mine, things like that. I’m going to tell him no, obviously. I just know I can get a free dinner out of him if I agree to talk.”

Iwaizumi hid a grin in his whiskey glass. “Sure.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not. I just like looking at you.”

Oikawa rolled his eyes, but was appeased. He called something snarky to Kunimi, who responded with a flat stare.

Iwaizumi sat back and watched the exchange, feeling a strange sense of contentment. The past two years had been characterized by nearly disabling fear; fear of Oikawa finding him, fear of the police, fear of his past catching up to him. The years before that, while he’d been undercover, had been spent in a state of constant stress. 

Iwaizumi had forgotten what it felt like to be at ease, and perhaps he shouldn’t have felt that way now. He was in a yakuza gang, in a clandestine relationship with his boss. He’d killed people, and he knew if the need arose, he would do it again. Iwaizumi Hajime was a criminal of the worst sort.

Oikawa laughed, easy and genuine, and it made Iwaizumi smile.

Iwaizumi was a criminal, but he thought he could come to terms with that. The world had never done him any favors. The police had been there for him, but not in the same way that Seijoh was. This was home. This was his family.

This time he was never leaving again. 

  
  
  
  
  
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**TWO YEARS AGO**

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The rain had started sometime in the past hour. Iwaizumi sat against the back wall of the hospital, his pants soaked through, hair dripping down his face. His knees were pulled against his chest, forehead propped on one kneecap. He hadn’t moved for so long that his muscles were stiff.

If he hadn’t been so numb, he would’ve been surprised to learn Mizoguchi worked for an actual hospital. He’d always assumed the man only handled sketchy yakuza dealings. It increased Iwaizumi’s confidence in his abilities, but he was still so on-edge that he could hardly breathe.

He’d carried Oikawa in through the back, because there could be no record of his visit there. Checking in a gunshot victim would be a red flag for the police. They would swarm in within minutes of his arrival, fishing for information. 

Sawamura would probably be one of them. 

The door creaked open and Iwaizumi didn’t raise his head.

“You’re still sitting there,” said Matsukawa.

Iwaizumi didn’t respond.

Matsukawa sighed and crouched beside him. 

“Mizoguchi said he’ll be okay.”

That got Iwaizumi’s attention. He raised his head slowly.

“They’re going to do surgery,” said Matsukawa. “Luckily there’s a surgeon here who helps Mizoguchi out sometimes. They’ll put everything back together and he’ll be almost as good as new.”

“Is he awake yet?”

Matsukawa shook his head. “They’re giving him anesthesia now, so he won’t be for a while. You should come inside, though. He’ll want you there when he wakes up.”

He said it like he knew something about Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

He said it like he knew how excruciatingly hollow Iwaizumi had felt when he’d carried Oikawa inside and put him in that hospital bed. Like he had some insight as to how Iwaizumi felt about Oikawa. Like he knew what they’d done the night before, and the way Oikawa had kissed him afterward, their bodies bare and entangled, the heat of ardor and need and devotion warming Iwaizumi from the inside out. 

Iwaizumi closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against his knees again. 

“I’ll come inside soon. I need a few more minutes.”

Matsukawa clapped him lightly on the shoulder. It was a gesture of camaraderie, and it made Iwaizumi ache. 

Without another word Matsukawa rose and went back inside, the hinges of the rarely-used door creaking.

Iwaizumi didn’t move.

He thought about the Oikawa inside the hospital, pale and helpless, his life bleeding out of him.

He thought about the Oikawa he’d first met, the mask of politeness, the underlying vein of cold efficiency.

Then, with a twinge of pain, he thought of the Oikawa that wasn’t a yakuza boss. Tooru, with his easy laughter and genuine smiles. Tooru, who always grinned when Iwaizumi employed his stupid _Shittykawa_ nickname. Tooru, whose existence was an extreme rarity beneath the demands of leading Seijoh. 

He wondered what Oikawa would be like if he’d never gotten caught up in the yakuza. If he’d just been a businessman or an accountant or maybe even a police officer like Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi would have loved him. 

He wasn’t certain that he didn’t love him anyway.

No matter his wishful thinking, Oikawa was none of those things, and he would never be.

Iwaizumi had made his choice to stay with Seijoh. He didn’t want to admit why, but he knew. He’d given up everything for Seijoh. He’d given up everything for _Oikawa_.

Now that he’d been given some time to think, the reality of the night’s events was sinking into his bones with crushing weight. It scared him. Oikawa had almost died, and that was frightening enough.

More frightening, though, had been Iwaizumi’s reaction.

He’d murdered two men. He’d killed one of them with his bare hands and shot the other in cold blood. Even if he could justify the first as self-defense, the second most certainly was not. 

He couldn’t consider it self-defense, anyway. He hadn’t been thinking about himself. As always, he’d been thinking about Oikawa.

He’d committed the ultimate crime because of his devotion to Oikawa Tooru. There was blood on his hands that would never wash away. The killings themselves were repulsive, but the meaning behind them was worse.

Iwaizumi was willing to do literally anything for Oikawa. 

It terrified him.

This was what he’d become. He was a loyal dog of the yakuza. If Oikawa told him to attack, he would attack. If Oikawa told him to kill, he would kill.

He’d become the exact sort of person that he’d been trained to hunt, the exact sort of person that he’d despised.

Iwaizumi didn’t know who he was anymore, and he was scared.

He got up, stiff muscles screaming, his drenched pants sticking to his legs. He started across the parking lot, stumbling between cars, the buzz of numbness tingling painfully in his feet. He nearly tripped over a curb, threw a hand against a parked car to catch himself, and just stood there panting, raindrops dripping against the back of his neck.

He blinked through the water and looked over his shoulder, toward the hospital. Oikawa was in there somewhere, unconscious, waiting to undergo surgery to put his shattered knee back together.

He would be fine, though. Oikawa was too strong to let something like this drag him down. He would wake up and expect to find Iwaizumi waiting, because Iwaizumi had told him only days before that he would always stay with him. He’d promised, and at the time it had been the truth.

Only now did Iwaizumi realize he’d lied.

He turned away and started walking again, his steps a little more stable. He didn’t know where he was going. Everything he owned was at Aoba Johsai, and he certainly couldn’t go back there and get it. He had about 5,000 yen in his pocket, and that was it. The only thing that he could buy with that was a bus ticket out of Tokyo. He didn’t even know how far it would get him.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he had to go somewhere, because he was afraid of what he would become if he stayed. He was afraid of what he’d already become. He had to get out now, while he still had a chance.

Iwaizumi wandered the dark streets, and he wasn’t sure if his face was wet with rain or tears. 


End file.
